The Reluctant First Mate

More Beaches in Provo

2010-07-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

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!”

Wound Down in Provo

2010-05-18T12:15:00.000-07:00

Friday was the day I allotted as “Wayne’s day off from family obligations,” but he kindly volunteered to dinghy us to the beach, rather than send us in a cab. He'd pick us up at three in the afternoon.

He left us off near the Coral Gardens Hotel. We planted our umbrella and spread out our towels next to the spacious canvas shades and a row of comfortable-looking lounge chairs reserved for guests of the hotel.

The attraction here was swimming around a patch of reef surrounded by rope and evenly-spaced bright orange buoys. But, you weren't allowed to swim inside the buoys. A sign indicated that this site was part of a reef restoration project.

"This mask leaks.” Grace spit water from her mouth. "These aren't the same ones we rented Tuesday.” She slicked back her hair and pressed the mask into her face.

Dexter readjusted his. "Mine leaks, too.”

My mask always leaks,” I said as I slid into the warm water. It wasn't a lie, I kept a bubble in my nose like Wayne taught me and when the mask was annoyingly full, I lifted the corner of the mask and let the water out. I left Grace and Dexter on shore fiddling with their faulty equipment.

Right off the beach, the coral was only a foot below water. It was gray and dead, probably destroyed by the feet and flippers of past snorkelers. Moving around clockwise, the water deepened, but as it did visibility lessened. The silty water reduced the mustard-yellow fire coral to a muted rust or in the deepest spots gray-green. My eyes traveled down each rope I crossed to the bottom where concrete moorings held the orange buoys in their circular pattern.

Underwater plaques were provided to educate snorkelers and point out items of interest. A yellow tail looks like this. Don’t touch fire coral. Brain coral looks like a brain.

Those plaques reminded me of the first time Wayne took me to Florida. We were beach-combing. I walked along behind him, my eyes scanning the sand in hopes of finding something other than glistening rocks and bits of broken shell. I was in search of a perfectly-formed nautilus, conch or periwinkle or a pair of pearly clam or scallop halves still joined. It seemed like Wayne had a knack for picking up a treasure, while I was still finding the dull and broken remains of shells like the ones I toted home from the beach as a child.

Suddenly, I spotted what looked like a “good find” and stooped to pick it up. It was a flamingo tongue, smooth, shiney and flawless. “Look!” I held it out in my open hand

That's a nice one,” Wayne said assuredly, but I noticed he was smirking.

I looked at him puzzled, then followed his eyes to the sand near my feet. When he'd passed this spot before me, he drew arrows in the sand pointing to the place where I would find the shell.

"You jackass," I said laughing.

Now, at Coral Gardens, I read each underwater plaque and finished the circle around the reef, dispirited by the injured coral, and sorry for, but maybe a bit smug, about those whose only snorkeling experience might be this coral garden.

By one, Mom, Grace, Dexter, and I were all squeezed under the little umbrella, each on our allotted quarter of shade. We read our books, swatted at bugs and shifted our towels as the umbrella's shadow elongated and stretched to the east.

At two, we hobbled across small prickly pine cones the size of thimbles. Spiky hitch-hikers lodged in the soles of our feet. We climbed the dune to sit under a Casarina tree. The sun was hot against our red skin as it cut in and out of the waving boughs of the tree. We returned to our books, looking up periodically to check the horizon for the dinghy-at first every fifteen minutes or so, then more frequently. Three o’clock came and went and still no sign of Wayne.

At three thirty, I stood and stretched. "Well, I don't know what happened to Wayne. We can go up to the hotel and call a cab or we can hike down the beach. Maybe, we'll see him coming along the way."

“Bill likes to hike,” Mom said.

The consensus was to walk, and we packed up our belongings and started our march down a long stretch of beach. We passed the hotels, then passed the beaches we'd visited on previous days. Our once energetic pace slowed as we stopped along the way to reposition the beach equipment we toted or remove a pebble from our sandals or wrap our waists in beach towels to not only lighten our loads, but protect our sun-burned skin from the late afternoon sun.

Each time, I saw a boat coming around Smith Point and heading up the channel, I was sure it was Wayne. At first, all we could make out was the frothy white wake and the dark silhouette of the driver. But as each boat drew near, what looked like a grey inflatable would transform into a white skiff.
For some reason, he wasn't coming to get us, but by then it was too late to turn around. I looked to my left for the beach access road that would lead back to the vicinity of the marina.

When we were well past the point where I expected to find the road, we could see masts from the marina above the dune, so I led the group on a narrow, sandy path that meandered around sea grapes and grasses. The path became less-defined. Aware that each step we took away from the beach was a wasted one if we didn't find the short-cut, I forged ahead of my entourage only to come to a stand-still. A thicket lay before me. A quick reconnaissance mission to the left and then to the right revealed no passage. I headed back to meet them on the path.

"We can't get through here."

They looked defeated.

We have to be close,” I added optimistically as they turned back towards the beach. Then, I saw another path, this one more defined. "This looks like it.”

We followed it past the backs of all of the beach houses we’d passed from the front a half an hour before, then to the paved Turtle Cove Road and finally we were trudging down the boardwalk towards the boat. I quickened my pace again and left them well behind me. I wanted to get there first in case I found a thick-tongued Wayne lounging in the Banana Boat Caribbean Cafe hidden behind a pyramid of beer cans. I didn't want to scream at him in front of my family.

I found Wayne relaxing on the deck of the boat reading a book. “Where were you?” I asked.

He looked up. “I tried to start the dinghy for two hours before I gave up. Why didn’t you take a cab?”

At the small convenience store next to the café, I bought fours popsicles. The clock read 5:30. We’d been walking two hours. Purple sugar water was melting down my arms, when everyone else caught up.

"Wanna popsicle?” I said smiling, as if all was well.

"Where was Wayne?" Grace barked.

My mother’s face was ruby-red and splotchy and she was short of breath. I placed a pillow behind her back on the sofa in the air-conditioned cabin, propped her feet on the coffee table and lubricated her with a big glass of ice water and what was left of her grape popsicle.

Saturday, I scheduled nothing. Maybe everyone needed a break from my well-intentioned plans. Wayne rose early and began polishing the boat's stainless rails. I got up next and joined in the fun. Dexter came up from the cabin and started helping too. Then Grace. My mom was the last one to surface, but before long she was polishing the faucets and mirrors inside the boat. We were all working, and we loaded the CD changer with what Grace called cheesy eighties music, and then Credence Clearwater Revival.

By noon, it was so hot, we were driven back into our air-conditioned cabin. If you peeked in Ella McQuaid's windows on that afternoon, you would have seen five bodies draped over sofas and chairs, five noses in books, one cat stretched to his longest on the cool wood floor between us.

“Bill likes to read,” Mom said.

That evening, we decided to go out for a night on the town. Algie recommended a local spot in the settlement of Blue Hills. “Give my regards to the owner. His name is Whitley, but everyone calls him Dick.” Algie grinned broadly.

“We’ll have to get a cab,” I said, thinking out loud.

“No worry. My mate, Hotshot, can give you a lift.”

We looked at the stocky man. Sweat was dripping from his creased black forehead and his clothes were rumpled and splotched with fish blood.

Oh, why not? I thought. Another adventure.

“Hurry up everyone,” I said to my family, “we’re getting a ride with Hotshot."

“Who?” Mom said looking at the mate from the back of the boat. (I wonder now if I get some kind of perverse pleasure from torturing my mother.)

Like me, she was probably wondering what kind of wheels he had, but he reappeared in a shiny red pickup. Mom and I climbed up into the front seat; everyone else settled into the back.

“Fasten your seatbelts,” Hotshot ordered, which seemed strange to me when everyone in the back would be bouncing around like kernels of popcorn, but I locked myself in.
“Hi! I’m Leah and this is my mom, Barbara.”

“My name’s George, but everyone calls me Hotshot.”

“How come?”

“That was my CB handle from the days before we had telephones on Provo.”

Hotshot told us he had to make one stop to pick up bread. We pulled into a gas station and small convenience store.

“I don’t think he’s here for bread,” my mom said suspiciously.

We waited. Then Hotshot came out carrying two loaves of homemade bread.

“Dey always save a couple of loaves for me,” he told us.

Back on the road, Hotshot cranked up the stereo. He loved country ballads, and a twangy barritone and thumping bass emanated from the speakers. “You’re sweeter than honey, and I want to eat you up,” Hotshot sang along.

“Dat's what I sing to my wife when I come home late,” he shouted over the music, “She's pissed and den I sing dis song to her, and she cuddles up next to me and says ‘honey, you’re de best.'"

My mom was laughing now. “Bill likes country music.”

We turned onto Blue Hills Road. It ran along the western shore of Grace Bay. On our left, we passed multi-colored, but faded concrete homes surrounded by coral rock yards and rusty cars. Barefoot children, like tiny bulls, ran in and out of sheets hanging on clothes lines. On our right, big pink conch shells lined winding and sandy paths. They led to huts, each with a sign advertising “Freshest Conch on the Island.” On the beach—six-foot tall mounds of discarded shells.

The truck slowed and we pulled into the parking lot of The Three Queens. Hotshot’s yellow teeth gleamed, and as he drove off, we could hear his laughter. “Say hi to Dick for me.”

“They all seem to think that Dick is a pretty funny name,” I said.

We walked up the wooden steps to a wide L-shaped veranda. There were dark green plastic tables, four chairs neatly tucked under each one. They were all empty. We peered through the door into the darkness of the bar. Music blared and a group of locals slapped dominoes loudly on a plastic table. Each slap sounded like a gunshot and the men shouted and hooted as they slammed down the dominos.

A huge man came from the bar. “Welcome to the Three Queens,” he bellowed showing a mouthful of gold teeth, “Are you dining wid us tonight?”

“Yes,” Wayne said.

“You can sit anywhere you like at da Three Queens.”

We pulled out four green chairs, brought one from another table and settled in on the deck.

“My name's Whitley, but everyone calls me Dick,” he said with a belly-laugh He towered over us like a giant. “What would you like tonight?”

“Could we see a menu?” I asked politely.

“Menu, Menu,” he boomed incredulously. “You can have anyting you want at da Three Queens—fish, conch, steak, pork, lamb, chicken. I’ll send da cook around to take your order.”

Menu? Menu? We dun need no steenkeen menus? I thought.

The cook, a stained apron wrapped around his waist, left his perch at the bar and came to take our order. I ordered New York Strip and the others ordered cracked conch. Wayne wouldn’t eat; he was on a mission to party hardy and refused to order food, in spite of my urgings. “I don’t want to ruin a good buzz.”

“You won’t make it to eight o’clock,” I warned.

When the food arrived, Wayne went into the bar to socialize with the locals. We ate, savoring every mouthful of rare peppery steak smothered in mushrooms and onions and sweet tender conch deep-fried to perfection. Both entrees were the best I ‘d ever tasted. When dinner was over, we ventured into the bar.

“Let’s play pool,” Grace said. She’s a good player and never wants to miss an opportunity to beat me.

While Mom was in the restroom, Wayne racked the balls. Then Grace aimed and pushed the stick into the cue ball. With a loud smack, the balls scattered.

“Thosh guys are ash-holes,” Wayne slurred in my ear pointing towards two young white guys playing at the table next to us.

“Why?”

Grace shot the two ball in the corner pocket.

“I tried to talk to them and they had no time for me.” He snarled. Wayne took his turn at the table and missed. Dexter walked over to the white guys.

“They won’t talk ta you, they’re ash-holes,” Wayne shouted across the room.

They looked up from their game, their eyes wide with surprise. Then their eyes narrowed.

“Wayne,” I said in an embarrassed whisper. Now, whose the asshole? I thought. Time to get Wayne out of here.

“He’s just kidding,” Dexter assured them.

Wayne lost interest in the game and moved back into the darkened bar. We finished without him and joined him. He had a new beer in his hand.

“Can you call us a cab, Dick?” I shouted over the music.

“Sure. My brother has a cab,” he said grinning.

“This is the last one,” I said to Wayne, “We need to go.”

“Why?”

“We want to get closer to home.” That was the truth. I didn’t know what he'd do next and I didn’t want him alienating any more of the patrons. We were miles from the boat and had no means of escape if trouble started.

I looked up to see Mom dancing to Latin music with Dick, her delicate white hand in his big black paw. Wayne took swigs of his beer, his head back, his elbow out. That’s always a bad sign, swigging beer with elbow out. Look at me! I’m a big guy. Like a chihuahua who thinks he’s mean as a pit bull.

“Woo Hoo Hoo!” The domino players howled.

The song was over and another started. Dick pulled me out onto the dance floor. We swayed our hips and pumped our arms. Other patrons turned on their bar stools to watch.

Finally, the cab came and I guided Wayne out the door like two dancers in a rhumba line.

“Bill likes to dance,” Mom said.

Dick’s brother charged us thirty dollars for the cab ride, which I thought was exorbitant, but later I was told that was a deal.

Back at the boat, Wayne went to bed. I was right. He didn't last until eight. The rest of us went to the Banana Boat Grill and listened to bad Karaoke.

“What are we doing today?” Grace asked the next morning.

I looked at Mom; she looked at me. Neither one of us wanted to do anything, but as a mother and grandmother, we could've been swayed. We both looked at Wayne. His face said it all.

“Nothing,” I said, “absolutely nothing."

“But its our last day.”

I shrugged. "We're worn out."

“OK, Ok, you old farts,” she said. Then to Dexter, “Let’s go to the casino.”

“How are you going to get there?” I asked.

“We’ll walk,” she said resolutely as she searched in a overflowing duffel bag for her shoes.

In the afternoon, Mom started gathering her belongings for her flight the next morning. She refolded her shirts and shorts with the care of a cashier at Nordstom’s. She zipped bottles in plastic bags and tucked them in zippered pockets. She unzipped, unpacked, and lifted corners looking for a lost piece of jewelry, or a ticket, or some other item she didn’t remember packing. She always does this and always finds the missing article exactly where she packed it.

So different from Grace, who would start fifteen minutes prior to her departure, cram her wadded up clothes in her knapsack, dirty and clean mixed together, then panic about a lost item and become hysterical right when it was time to leave.

We rented a car to take everyone to the airport the next day. At 3 p.m., a little red car was delivered to the marina, its paint dulled with dust and salt. At 5:30, Wayne and I decided to take a ride and see if we could find Grace and Dexter walking back from the casino. I was starting to worry about them. I sat behind the wheel and turned the key, but instead of the roar of the engine, there was complete silence.

What now? I thought. The car rental facility closed at 5.

About this time Grace and Dexter appeared. They’d walked for miles, but the Casino was not open on Sundays.

“Is there an owner’s manual?” Grace dug in the glove compartment. “Maybe there's some secret button you have to push.”

“Maybe it’s a fuse,” Dexter added.

The manual was written in Japanese. Grace and I laughed, but Mom looked worried. We tried to interpret the pictures and wiggled wires and popped out fuses until Wayne finally got a big wrench and pounded on the corroded battery terminals. The big hammer technique of auto repair worked again. The car started right up.

The next morning, we got mom to the airport by 6, said our almost tearful good byes, then picked up Grace and Dexter for laundry and shopping before taking them to their plane in the afternoon.

In spite of the fact that little went as I planned, I’m sure their vacations were memorable, but I’m equally sure that everyone was looking forward to returning to their normal lives—Dexter to his new job, Grace and Dexter to apartment hunting, and of course, Mom to Bill.

My emotions were mixed--sad, because I didn’t know when I would see them all again, but relieved too, to return to our small quarters in Paradise—just Wayne, Chris the Cat, and me. I was tired of being responsible for the entertainment and happiness of so many and looking forward to getting back in touch with my man.
Whenever, we have company or are visiting others for more than a day or two, I always feel detached from Wayne. You can’t be intimate when you are always within someone else’s earshot. And I am not referring to sexual intimacy, although that too is a factor, but emotional. We need time to ourselves not only to enjoy each other’s company, but to work out our differences.

That night, while in the shower, I heard a cat crying through the small porthole in our head.

“Wayne,” I called over the sound of running water, “I think Chris is meowing.”

I could hear Wayne walking around outside whistling for Chris, and the crying stopped.

“I don’t see him anywhere,” he said coming back into the boat and repositioning himself behind the computer. “He must be out chasing lizards or asleep under the dash.” This was no surprise. Chris had been moving freely on and off the boat for two weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, I gathered my book, reading light, and cocktail and sank into the lounge chair on the deck.

“Merrrrooooow! Merroooooow!” I heard. That was definitely Chris, but where was he and why was he crying?

I stepped off of the boat and whistled and called for him. I walked along the boardwalk, checking out all of his favorite hang outs. I whistled near the porches.

“Meeeerrooow,” he answered.

I whistled behind the trash bins.

“Meeeerrrrow,” he answered again, but further away.

I walked back towards the boat. His cries were becoming panicky, but I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t coming. Then, I realized he was under the boardwalk.

“Wayne!” I wailed running back into the salon and rummaging through a drawer for a flashlight, “Chris is under the dock!”

Wayne grabbed the flashlight. Stooped in the dinghy, he pulled himself under with one hand while shining the light in the water with the other. The yellow light wiggled as it moved slowly across the surface. I bent over the gunwhale and tried to look under the dock expecting to see a little head bobbing in the water.

“It’s OK!” I reassured the cat, “Daddy’s coming!”

The flashlight beam moved up from the water to the rocks where dock met land. High above the ledge on a concrete support, two yellow eyes glowed. Wayne scooped up the sopping wet cat in his arms, then inched his way back to the Ella McQuaid. Chris meowed in complaint, until he jumped from Wayne’s arms into the boat and began licking saltwater from his fur.

“What happened, Chris?” I asked.

He turned his head at the sound of my voice. “Merrrow,” he replied looking ho hum,now. Then he hopped up onto the gunwhale, glanced down at the water, measured the distance and leapt onto the dock. This time, he made it with ease.

Due to Wayne’s finely-tuned sense of time—he never knows what the date is or remembers when an event is scheduled—we found our selves in Provo with a week to spare before our friends, the Nibalis, and our son Aaron arrived. Provo was costing us a fortune. We should've moved out of the marina, but we were far too comfortable and since Mom had generously supplemented our marina fee fund in lieu of paying for hotel accommodations, we stayed on another week.

This was our opportunity to really get to know Provo, to see if we might want to live here someday Our goal was to find an island that we liked more than Key West—a place that was warm year round, offered good fishing and diving, friendly people, and affordable housing (should we grow weary of boat-living). Most important to me was a sense of community. Having always lived in the suburbs of two large cities, Baltimore ten miles to the north and DC twenty-five miles to the south, I craved small town living. In Maryland, I could live two blocks from someone I went to high school with and never see them for twenty-five years. In Key West, after just a few months, I couldn’t walk down Duval Street or go shopping at Albertson’s without running into someone I knew. And there really was a bar there, Captain Runagrounds, where everybody knew my name.

The Bahamas were out of the question, because Americans are prohibited from working there. But in the Turks and Caicos, an American can start a business with some limitations. Opening a restaurant to compete with a local one was not allowed, but if you had a skill or business idea that no native or ex-patriot was capable or willing to do, then you could set up shop.

At five o’clock each night, the parking lots filled up with dusty pickups and SUVs. Construction workers, architects, and civil engineers found their favorite stools around the wooden bars. Later arrivals, jostled for position behind them, as the stool dwellers passed back their drinks. The happy hour crowd was predominantly white. It was our third week here, and our faces were now familiar to them. Some nodded in recognition; other’s engaged us in conversation. There was Paddy, the Irishman. He could tell stories for hours, and he always had one that could top yours. At 5 p.m., I could understand three-quarters of what he had to say—by 6, about half. The Scotsmen were worse, there brogues were thicker than their hairy necks. I laughed when they laughed and frowned when they frowned, and hoped that I didn’t offend them. Every statement made sounded like a question, and only when they paused and looked at me did I know that they were expecting a response. They probably thought I was a half-wit.

One by one the ex-patriots left their stools and swaggered out the door, while the well-dressed locals started to arrive in groups of two or three for that night’s Karaoke or live music. By nine, the crowd was predominantly black.

Friday nights, all of the ex-pats left their favorite roosts at the Banana Boat and Tiki Bars and crowded into Shark Bites for Happy Hour. The girl friends and wives came, too, tourists with their children, and the crews from the big yachts parked at the dock.

The Rotary Club sponsors Bingo on Sunday night’s at the Banana Boat. Algie is the host, and he loves the microphone, greeting the crowd, making announcements, and calling the numbers in his best DJ voice. When the jackpot is high, as many as 600 people crowd into the small open restaurant, spilling out onto the boardwalk. Three weeks ago, someone walked away with $17,500. This night, the pot was only $3500, and the crowd was manageable. We were there early enough to get a seat at the bar. We filled our cards, placing a little cardboard circle on each square, but didn’t win.

When Bingo was over, we stayed to the wee hours talking with Ian, a portly Scotsman. A friar’s fringe of thin brown hair encircled his bald head. His Central American wife looked like a hot tamale with her long black hair and colorful spandex dress, but she was homesick and all she wanted to talk about was children and grandchildren. I listened politely for a while, before turning my attention to Ian. He was well-educated, and lacked the thick brogue of his country-mates. He spouted verses of Eliot, Joyce, and Wordsworth in a booming, theatrical voice like a character from a British film. We shared a love of words, and it was a topic of conversation, then he and Wayne moved to history, politics, and religion, until we could no longer balance our bottoms on our wobbly bar stools. Wayne and I staggered the hundred feet to our boat and fell asleep in our clothes.

Now, it’s Monday. The past week was pleasant and relaxing. We often worked ten to twelve hour days waxing the boat and polishing rust marks from the stainless. Many evenings were like this one. Wayne would play on the computer, while I sat on the deck and read or wrote. There is comfort in working hard together towards a common goal, then separating to our individual activities, not having to talk, just being there. Glancing from my book into the salon, I can see the light of the computer reflecting off Wayne’s face in the darkness. Passing by on my way to the galley for a refill, I plant a kiss on the back of his neck, the gray fuzz tickling my nose. I feel so grateful.

Why I'm Not a Tour Guide...

2010-04-15T12:26:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, to give everyone a rest from sun and sand, I planned a day touring the island. Here was my chance to do “the tourist thing” and see all of the sights I read about in our cruising guides. We waited outside while the clerk pulled the rented jeep up to the door at Scooter Bob’s. Wayne opened the door and put a leg in.

“Not ready,” the clerk said.

He went inside and came out with a small compressor, then began filling a tire on the other side.

“It’s got a flat tire?” my mother whispered to me. She looked worried.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” I laughed.

Wayne took the driver’s seat; I took the passenger, and the three of them squeezed into the back.

We wound up the hill to Leaward Highway and made a right. A loyalist plantation called Cheshire Hall was our first scheduled stop. Thomas Stubbs grew cotton and later, sisal, there. Production and exportation thrived until he was forced to abandon the effort due to land deprivation, insect infestation, and finally a hurricane in 1813. The slaves he left behind settled here and their descendants still occupy the Caicos Islands. The plantation is now a national park.

We slowed down, looking for the entrance while cars tore past us. By the time I spotted it, we’d passed it. No worry, we’d stop on our way back.

Next destination—the bakery, highly recommended by one of my cruising guides. We pulled into the parking lot of a small shopping center.

“Is it open?” Wayne looked at the darkened windows.

“I don’t know. I’ll check.” I jumped out of the car and Grace followed me.

I tried the door and it opened. But instead of the odor of fresh baked bread, the smell of ammonia stung our nostrils. We looked around at the empty shelves as a woman entered from the kitchen. “Closed ‘til Monday.”

“Okay”, I said, “two down, twenty to go.”

“What’s next?” Grace asked, when we got back into the car.

“The Tiki Huts of Atlantis. They should be really cool! This beach was only accessible by water, until some French Television producers bull-dozed a road through the bush. The Tiki Huts were a game-show set.

The jeep bounced over a pothole and everyone grunted, but I continued undaunted.

“Contestants dove into an underwater cage that still sits in twenty feet of water off the beach. Inside the cage, plastic pearls shot out of a giant, manmade sponge while the players tried to snatch as many as possible. They could buy air from mermaids, but had to watch out for “bad” mermaids who would swim away without giving them any.”

In spite of its cheesy history, the beach was purported to be secluded and beautiful with easy snorkeling nearby. My plan was to check out the beach on this day in anticipation of taking a cab there the next. Grace, Dexter, Mom and I could spend the day shaded by the Tiki Huts and give Wayne a day off from family obligations.

Wayne grew up in a small, city house with three sisters. I was an only child and had the whole upstairs of our modest cape cod to myself—bedroom, bath, and large sitting room. Wayne enjoys his private time and space. I enjoy having a crowd in my home. Wayne, like Ben Franklin, thinks that guests are like fish—after three days, they start to smell. I have fond memories of waking to the smell of bacon and my mom and her sisters chattering in the kitchen when they came for an overnight visit. I rarely grow tired of a guest. Wayne likes quiet-soft voices, soft music. I like noise—the volume turned up high on the stereo, Oprah or reruns of Frazier on the TV while I’m cooking dinner or folding clothes.

Actually our boat is rather small with five people and all of their gear on board. So, although he did not request it, I thought Wayne might need a day off. That’s why I came up with this great plan to scope out Atlantis.

We drove to the end of Leaward Highway and turned off on Blue Hills Road, the old highway that runs along the northern coast of Provo, past the settlement called Blue Hills. The road ended at a dirt road carved into the bush. Wayne drove the jeep through the dirt and dust, trying to avoid pot-holes and boulders that seemed to bubble up from cracks in the hard, dry ground. I glanced back to see Mom rising from her seat, her head approaching the ceiling, while Grace was on her way down, and Dexter was somewhere in between.

Pot holes grew to wide cracks and crevices. Wayne drove on the wrong side of the road to avoid them.

My mom stared ahead, her hands gripping the seat in front of her. “Watch out!" She landed in her seat again. "Oh."

“It can’t be much further,” I found a map in the cruising guide, but there were no legends to tell me how far it was, nor any land-marks to help along the way. No other cars, just the windy dirty road in front and behind us and tall cactus and low growing shrubs on either side.

“My tail bone’s getting numb,” my mom complained.

“How much further is it?” Dexter asked.

“I’m worried about that tire,” Wayne added.

I got out the cruising guide and started reading out loud in a futile attempt to generate some enthusiasm for our adventure. I read about the game show. I read about the beauty of the beach. I read:

“You can reach the Tiki Huts by car, but it must be a four-wheel drive vehicle.”

“I think we better give this up,” Wayne said, turning the car around and heading back. Back-tracking on the dirt road, through Blue Hills, back to the Leaward Highway, we found the entrance to Cheshire Hall.

Parking was not provided, so we left the car in the lot of a strip mall, and crossed the busy highway. The sounds of the city faded as we moved on foot up a shady, tree-lined lane. Arriving at the entrance gate, we could see bits of the stone foundation through lush vegetation and a narrow, winding path that led to the ruins. It looked inviting after the dirt road and the busy highway, but the gate was locked. Seems you must call ahead to schedule a tour, a fact not mentioned in my cruising guide.

I kept the smile on my face, but inside I was thinking, First, we miss the ruins, then the bakery was closed, then we couldn’t get to the Tiki Huts, now this! What a disaster.

“Oh, well,” I said, “Let’s go shopping”.

We crowded back into the jeep, onto the Leaward and towards the resort area of the island. Here, we found Ports O Call, the shopping area. Mom bought some coffee.

“Bill will like this coffee.”

Dexter bought cigars. Then we girls wandered in and out of small boutiques. Mom bought an animal print sarong.

“Bill says I purr like a kitten.”

Grace scrunched up her face. “Too much information.”

Later, we found Dexter and Wayne sitting in a bar watching tennis on TV. They must be bored, I thought as their eyes moved from left to right, right to left with the tennis balls.

“I’m hungry,” Grace said. We checked the menu, but no one was thrilled with it. Checked two other restuarants in the complex. Both closed.

“Let’s go to Smokies on Da Beach,” I said. “It’s nearby.”

Back in the jeep, we followed our tourist map to a dirt road, then headed towards Grace Bay. The road ended, but there was no restaurant. We turned around and tried another. No Smokies. And another.

“Ask those guys where it is.” Wayne nodded his head toware two workers just finishing their lunch.

“Do you know where Smokies on Da Beach is?” I called out.

“No Anglaise,” the Haitians said.

Now, I was really feeling like a failure. The next planned stop was the Conch Farm, but I couldn’t remember if there was a restaurant there, and I was afraid there might be a mutiny if I paraded my family around a aquaculture complex for two hours without feeding them. At this point, no one seemed too interested in watching a conch grow, anyway.

Back on the Leaward Highway, we found a pizza parlor and after thick slices of hot cheesy pizza, some of the crowd’s enthusiasm returned. All parties wanted to see “the Hole.”

The hole is a natural one, forty-foot wide and eighty-foot deep. Our cruising guide indicated that visitors could swim in the bottom of the hole if brave enough and able (I might add) to climb the ropes. We drove into a residential community on the southeast end of the island and only made one wrong turn before finding a dirt drive among the paved ones.

Graced jumped out of the jeep as soon as it stopped. “Come on, Dex!”

“OK,” he said, picking up his pace to catch up.

We came along behind. There it was—a big jagged crevice. We walked the irregular perimeter. I tried to find a spot where I could look inside without getting too close to the crumbling dirt and rock near the edge. My heart was in my throat, as I watched Grace and Mom venture much closer than I would have liked. On land, they were both much braver than I. I caught glimpses of the stagnant water at the bottom. In spite of the heat, no one was interested in swimming in the hole. Relieved, I herded everyone back to the jeep.

The next attraction on the “Autotour from Hell” was Sapadillo Hill. We headed south looking for the abandoned Mariner’s Hotel.

“I read about Sapadillo Hill,” Grace said, “that’s where ship-wrecked sailors from the 19th century carved their names in the rocks.”

”They were probably twentieth century real estate agents.” Wayne said.

“One of the rocks is hanging on the wall in the airport,” Mom said.

I hope that's not the only one I ever see, I thought, but I said, “Today we're going to see them in their natural habitat.”

Wayne parked the jeep on the shoulder of the road, just off the beach, and after taking a few moments to stand in the shade of a casarina and look out over the tranquil waters of Sapadillo Bay, we headed on foot up a bumpy dirt drive. The cruising guide indicated that we should find the hotel and then climb the hill adjacent to it. The hotel was multi-leveled and tucked in the side of Sapadillo Hill. We walked its creaky wooden decks, looking for a path on the perimeter. One room was occupied. Clothes hung from a cord slung between the supports, and potted plants lined the porch.

“Someone is living here,” my Mom said looking worried again, “we should go." Wayne and Mom started back down to the air-conditioned jeep. I didn’t see Grace and Dexter anywhere. Then I heard a voice that sounded like it was coming from very far away.

“Mom! Mom!”

I looked up to the top of the hill, but saw nothing.

“Are you alright?” I shouted through my cupped hands.

No answer.

“I started up the hill on what might be a path, but really wasn’t. It was a maze of palmettos and cacti. Stones and dirt dislocated by my platform sandals, broke away and showered down the slope behind me. The sun beat down on my head. This looks like a fine place for a snake, I thought as I scanned the area. I remembered speculating at Norman’s Cay about whether the vegetation would be lusher as we moved from the sub-tropics to the tropics. The answer turned out to be “no.” Except for areas land-scaped for the benefit of tourist and ex-patriots, Provo (like Mayaguana) is barren and desert-like. The land is dry and dusty or hard and cracked. The plants are sparse and prickly.

“Mom, Mom.” The voice closer, now.

I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my face. At the very top of the hill, I saw Grace.

“Look, Mom!” she said, a big smile in her voice.

I climbed the last hundred feet to meet her.

“Wow,” was all I could say when I arrived at her side. We were on top of the highest hill in Provo. On two sides there was view of the pale green bay and its tiny cays. We seemed so close to the azure sky and big puffy clouds, I felt like I could put out my hand and touch them. Although, there is beauty in the layered hues of brown earth, the greens and rusts of shrubs, and the unexpected splashes of blooms, it can hardly compete with the cool soothing shades of sky and water. If this were a painting, I would say to Wayne, “I don’t like those acrylics, the color are too vibrant. They don’t look real.”

I turned in a slow circle. Behind us, the milky brown salt flats of Chalk Sound lay as smooth as glass. Dexter came up behind us.

“Look.” Grace pointed to the ground.

We followed her finger and saw flat rocks at our feet, some intricately carved, some crudely. There were names and dates, etchings of sailing ships, and country cottages. The oldest one we found was from 1816.

“This probably looks just about the same as it did in 1816.” I looked out over the water again.

We stood there a few moments longer, and then Grace said, “We better go. Grandma is probably convinced we have fallen into one of those holes.”

Back in the air-conditioned jeep, we tried to describe what we saw, but I don’t think our words did it justice, because if they had, Mom and Wayne would have exited the jeep and headed up the hill. Instead, we moved on.

On this end of the island, there were supposed to be two fish houses and we wanted fresh, local fish for dinner, not twenty dollar a pound farm-raised salmon from the IGA.

“Bill likes fish.”

We drove up and down more dirt roads, past abandoned quarries and a large gasoline depot. Here the terrain looked like the strip-mined hills of Appalachia. The squiggly black lines on the map indicated un-named roads. We couldn’t tell road from driveway.

“Give me that,” Grace commanded. I handed her the map. She was certain that the navigator was the problem. Grace and Dexter and finally, my mom studied the map and directed the driver back down the same dirt roads. There was no one anywhere to ask.

Finally, we gave up and headed back towards the now familiar Leaward Highway through one of the original settlements known as Five Cays. We passed a complex of weary concrete buildings. They bordered a small parking lot and courtyard.

“Turn around,” I ordered. Passing by, I’d noticed words above the open door of one of the structures. They were a sloppily painted, but legible—Fish House. We pulled in and piled out of the jeep. Young Haitians sat on a crumbling, concrete wall. Their faces were angular and stern. They stared. Wayne and I crossed the lot and entered the building. Inside, the eight by eight cement cube were two chest-type freezers and a scale. We walked back outside, and found our family staring at tadpoles swimming in muddy water in what was once a fountain.

Mom looked worried again, probably intimated by those unfriendly faces. We returned to the fish house and looked inside the freezer at the fish. Finally, a young woman arrived. There were bags of strawberry grouper and grunts—four dollars a pound for any kind. We bought some of each. Then, we moved on and stopped at the IGA and loaded up on food and beverage for the rest of the week. Not unlike my last guided tour in a rental car, the one at Georgetown, we were all glad when we arrived back at the boat.

Bill had answered Mom’s email. She tried to use her calling card to phone him, but it wouldn’t work in the nearby phone booth.

“Call him.” I offered my satellite phone.

“But it’s so expensive.”

“Go for it,” I said, “up on the bridge. The reception is better.”

Ah, young love!

Life's a Beach

2010-03-09T07:32:00.000-08:00

Sunday, June 1 (I think)

I was cleaning and polishing the inside of the boat, stowing the items we'd stored in the spare stateroom, and making up bunks in anticipation of the arrival of my mom, Grace, and her boyfriend, Dexter.

“Why are you doing all of this?” Wayne asked, “When everybody gets here, no one will notice.”

“It needs to be done and it makes me feel better.”

Wayne thinks I’m crazy, because I always clean like a fiend when guests are expected. I did when I had a house, and I do it now. Perhaps, I don’t want anyone to know what a slob I can be. But, it goes further than that. I want everything to look as perfect as it can. If I have a party or the family comes for a holiday, it bothers me when the guests arrive and mess up my “Better Homes & Gardens” presentation by placing their bags on the floor or in a chair, and their food containers on the kitchen counters. I would rather prepare all of the food myself than have guests arrive with big bags of chips and plastic containers full of store-bought coleslaw. They pull out a chair; I push it in. They put their camera on the table; I hide it on top of the refrigerator. They bring in a box of cookies; I find a plate and arrange them in a pin-wheel of overlapping circles. I know I’m obsessive, and after my second glass of wine, I couldn’t care less. Still every time, company is coming, I go through the same routine.

So, I started early in the morning. By 1:00 p.m., Wayne was tired of trying to look busy while I worked. He suggested that we walk over to the Banana Boat Grill for a coke. We sat in the cool shade of a deck, sipping our ice cold soft drinks, and got involved in conversation with some locals.

We met Algie—tall and so black, he was almost blue. He was trim, neat, and well-spoken. Algie gave up his job in Barbados as an air traffic control manager, where he was responsible for ninety-seven controllers. He returned to his homeland to captain the only local-owned fishing charter boat in Provo. It was called “Gwod Phrienz,” purported to be the West Indies spelling of “Good Friends”. His boat was docked two slips away from the Ella McQuaid.

Beverages progressed to beer, and time passed quickly, until it was clear that no more cleaning was to take place on that fine Sunday afternoon.

Monday morning, I put my hangover on hold and was a whirlwind of activity, trying to finish my cleaning before the arrival of my family. I thought by the time they landed, retrieved their luggage, went through customs, and found a cab, I would have time to complete the transformation of our lived-in floating abode to a luxury suite on the Queen Mary, then I would take a shower, put on clean clothes and makeup and be standing their looking lean and tan, and well-kempt. I would be the perfect hostess and they would go home and tell everyone how great I looked and what a great life I had.

When they arrived, I was on my hands and knees polishing the floor. A bandana was wrapped around my greasy hair and sweat was dripping into my eyes. My clothes were dirty and stained and hung from my limbs like wet rags. They didn’t care. They were so excited to be there. They came bearing gifts and provisions and caught us up on their lives.

Dexter, my daughter’s handsome twenty-three year-old boyfriend, having had the mission to locate a repair manual for our outboard, ordered one for us. After two phone calls, where the provider seemed to be asking questions that were too specific, a huge box arrived at his door. Inside, Dexter found a new outboard, not a manual. We laughed as he told his story in his no-nonsense tone of voice.

Mom, two years a widow, had a new boyfriend named Bill. Dexter just graduated from college and had selected a job. Grace quit her job on Wall Street and was going to start teaching in the Fall. Grace and Dexter were to begin apartment hunting, as soon as they returned to the states.

Their knapsacks and duffles were piled in my clean boat, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to share a little bit of paradise with them.

After dinner, Grace said, “Who want to play Trivial Pursuit?”

“I will,” Dexter said. His mission in life seems to be to please my daughter, in spite of her moods and whims. This endears me to him.

“I’ll play,” I said.

“Me, too,” Mom said.

Wayne agreed reluctantly.

And so we played, but I wondered how I was going to entertain them for a whole week.
That night, before falling asleep on the sofa, I planned some diversions, but options were limited because if you don’t dive and fish, activities in Provo are pretty much limited to beach, snorkel, eat, and drink. Mom and Grace are both likely to get sea-sick in the boat when it’s docked, so I didn’t plan any big boat adventures.

The next day, Tuesday, I suggested a dinghy ride around to Smith Point for a day of swimming and snorkeling. Here, there are patch reefs right off the beach. The five of us crowded into the eleven-foot inflatable. Snorkel equipment, a beach umbrella (for my alabaster mother), bottled water, towels, and cameras were piled at our feet. The sun was shining brightly as the motor strained to push the boat around the harbor and through the canal. We plowed into the bay like a big manatee and came face to face with a steady surge of waves. Although, they weren’t large, the combination of wind, waves, and the weight in the boat sent water up and over the pontoons and into our faces. We moved toward a line of black storm clouds that hung in the blue sky like a partially drawn shade.

“That looks ominous,” my mother said. She was looking towards the clouds and grasping the dinghy with both hands.

Finding a good landing spot on the rocky beach was impossible. We hobbled across slimy, plant-covered rocks in our bare feet trying to avoid the pointy ones.

“Oooch! Ouch!"
“Yuk.”

Once we made it past the ouchy, yucky stuff, Grace, Wayne, and Dexter put on masks, snorkels, and fins and took immediately to the water. By this time, the whole sky was a mottled black and gray. My mom stood on the beach nervously tracking the storm.

“Don’t worry. It’ll pass over. I see blue sky over there.” I pointed to a tiny patch of blue then worked the beach umbrella into the sand.

But the storm didn't pass us by and before long, I looked up from where I was wading in the water and saw Mom standing all by herself on the beach stooped under the green umbrella. She was wrapped in a towel. Her hair was wet—big clumps of it sticking to her forehead. I joined her under the umbrella that apparently was meant to protect from the sun, not the rain. It leaked like a cheap tent. We could see flashes of lightning miles away. Thunder echoed across the clouds and water.

Wayne came to shore, and we left Grace and Dexter to their fun and took Mom back to the boat for a cup of tea, a warm shower, and her book. Then, we rejoined the kids. By this time, the storm had passed and we snorkeled.

Big red starfish lay on the sandy bottom. Dexter drifted up on a Hawksbill turtle and followed it along a grassy underwater meadow. Small, colorful fish swam near rocks and corals. I wished that Mom were there to see it all. It wasn’t a huge reef, but snorkeling from the beach is an easy way to get acclimated to the equipment, and enticing enough to make you want to see more. Maybe, the next day.

Wednesday, we tried again, but this time went further east to a sandy, crescent beach with water so crystal clear, we could have been in a bathtub. Like the day before, we were completely alone on the beach. The bottom was covered with soft sand. It stretched forty feet to a distinct dark line. There, grass and rocks prevailed for the convenience of snorkelers.

I encouraged my mom to try on the mask and explained how to breathe through the snorkel. We were standing in perfectly-calm, waist-deep water.

I pulled tendrils of hair from her mask. “Do you have a good seal?”

She repositioned the mask.

“Now, put this in your mouth and breathe slowly. Breathe through your mouth."

I could see fear in her eyes.

“You don’t have to swim,” I said. “You can just bend forward and put your face in the water."

She put her face in the water. Not ten seconds later, she popped up and spit the snorkel from her mouth. “I can’t do it. ‘

“It’s OK, Mom, maybe later.”

I always thought I was the biggest chicken in the family. When I was in my twenties and we went bike-riding together down a mountain road, I crawled along with my foot on the brake. Mom tore down the hill, but before she got to the bottom, she crashed. Maybe she's more scared now. But snorkeling isn't dangerous. I was disappointed. I wanted her to see this whole new world. I wanted her to see the things I loved so much.

The five of us spent most of the day lying in twelve inches of warm water. Gentle waves lapped over our backs or fronts. We developed the Caribbean Water exercise routine, doing push-ups, the alligator walk, and isometric stomach crunches. Then Grace and I progressed to bent legged and flat-footed handstands, followed by a water ballet, more reminiscent of beached whales then Esther Williams.

Late in the afternoon, we noticed a large distinct shadow moving across the pale blue water.

“What’s that?” someone asked.

I looked up at the sky thinking it was the shadow of a cloud, but the sky was blue and clear. The dark spot undulated like a bubble just before it lifts from the end of a wand, and it was moving toward us. We stood and stared. Grace and Mom ran towards shore.

It came closer.

“It’s fish!” I shouted in amazement, “millions of tiny fish”. They swarmed around us, staying just clear of our body parts, as if a force field emanated from our skin that both attracted and repelled them. We ran and got out snorkel equipment and slid into the shallow water on our bellies.

Grace and mom were standing a few feet from the black bubble. They moved cautiously toward it.

“They’re not touching you?” Grace asked.

The churning fish moved in a clockwise pattern, then with a barely discernable movement of one of our hands or feet or for no apparent reason, the fish would suddenly reverse direction in unison. There was no thinning at the edges of the whirring mass, just rows and columns of shiny two-inch long fish crowded together in a black bubble with ever-changing boundaries.

Mom, standing right in the middle of them now, said, “I wish Bill could see this.”

We lay still in the water floating around my mom, our snorkels in the air. Then we noticed ghost-like silver disks hovering just outside the mass. They were small bar jacks, the predators. And looking up towards the surface of the water, we could see the long, thin, nearly translucent bodies of needlefish. These larger fish had herded the shiners into this bait ball. I wondered if the shiners stayed with us so long, because they knew their predators would not come near us.

I tried to get my mother to try the snorkel and mask again, but she preferred watching from above. The rest of us floated there for nearly an hour. The fish never thinned or made an effort to leave. They just kept whirling and whirling, a silver dervish. We were mesmerized. Would they do this forever?

One by one, we returned to the beach and started packing to go home and the black shadow merged with the dark green band of water just off the beach as we pushed the dinghy from shore.

That night, we climbed the stone steps referred to locally as Cardiac Hill to sit in the Sunset Café.

“Bill would like this,” my mom said as we watched the boats bobbing in the marina below us. The glowing orange sun melted into aqua, then disappeared. Mom was missing Bill and after we went home, I showed her how to use my email program, then shot her love note across the ocean to Keyser, West Virginia.

It's Too Rough to Feed You!

2010-02-19T09:52:00.000-08:00

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.

View Larger Map

“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

2010-02-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Mayaguana, Part 2 of Many Parts

2010-01-08T09:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Mayaguana, Part 1 of Many Parts

2010-01-07T11:16:00.000-08:00

Monday, May 20, 2003

After an impressive sunrise and with good spirits, we found our way out of Clarentown’s rocky harbor. Planning a sixty-three mile run to Attwood Bay on Acklin’s Island, we were back out in the deep waters of the Atlantic Ocean by 8 a.m. The waves hit us from the port side, but were only three to four high—wide and evenly spaced. The big boat rolled easily over each hump, making an almost unprecedented 9 knots at 2000 RPMs.

I read from one of our cruising guides about Provo, our destination in the Caicos Islands. We were scheduled to meet family there on June 2nd.

Taking a break to visit the head, I sat, cat at my feet. Suddenly Chris’ ears pivoted like microwave dishes, and he bolted from the head to the salon. Then I heard it---zing…zing…zing. There was a fish on one of the lines, and he was running fast.

“Fish on! Fish on! Fish on!” I shouted, running up the steps on to the deck. I climbed the ladder as quickly as any out-of-shape, middle-aged woman could while trying to pull up her trousers.

Wayne cut the throttle back half way, spryly descended the ladder, and grabbed the trolling rod. I could see the rainbow colors of the big dolphin as Wayne dragged him sideways through the water. I slowed the boat more, and Wayne started reeling. Suddenly, the line went slack. The fish had escaped.

“Shit!” Wayne said, “Maybe 9 knots is too fast for trolling.”

Back on the bridge, each of us in our places, I began reading, this time about Myaguana, our destination for the next day, and our last stop before Provo. I read these words out loud from On and Off the Beaten Path:

A hundred yards further up the road to the right is Reggie’s Villas and Satelllite Lounge…..Reggie Charlton has a reputation for serving some downright strong drinks. Reggie also sells cigarettes, and can arrange for any parts you need to have flown in via the Bahamasair flights on Monday and Fridays. If you need fuel...

I stopped and read to myself, then reread, then checked my other cruising guide, then the charts. These were the words:

If you need fuel, you can ask Reggie for assistance, but be advised that you will have to jerry jug it back to the dock.

What? I thought, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. All of the guides indicated that Clarencetown, where we had not refueled because I’d talked Wayne out of it, was the last place to buy gas before Myaguana. For heavens sake, there was a fuel dock on the chart. How could this be?

Wayne finally missed the steady drone of my voice.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to figure out if we have enough gas to get to Provo,” I replied without looking him in the eye.

All I can say is that it was a good thing Wayne took his St. John’s Wort. He was really a good sport about it, and for the most part tried not to make me feel too bad. After much discussion and pages of first year algebraic equations to compute remaining gasoline and miles, Wayne accepted the fact that we would be, or he would be (I should say), carrying cans of gas over land. And over water via unreliable dinghy. And that in order to maintain our preferred safety margin as far as how much gas we wanted, several trips would be required.

At times like this, I wonder what the hell we’re doing driving this big tub with two engines guzzling gasoline faster than a fraternity brother can down a cold Bud. Who else but Wayne Benner, and me following along like a sheep, would opt to go thousands of miles on their first off-shore cruise? Baaa! What are we doing heading south in the summer directly into the prevailing winds?

Other cruisers have sailboats or trawlers with small efficient diesel engines. At anchorages, we are always the only gasoline-powered boat. When we tell the fuel attendant, we need gasoline, he raises his eyebrows in surprise, then asks us if we are sure we want gas. Once confirmed, he shake his heads in pity. Like we just told him we burned down our house smoking in bed. Novice cruisers might venture a few hundred miles to Bimini or the Abacos on their first cruise, until they had more experience, but not us. And, the vast majority of cruisers, as a matter of fact, everyone we have met on this trip, head south in the winter when prevailing winds are pushing them from the north, then head back north in the summer to avoid hurricanes. I feel like I am living in the “Opposite” realm. What were we thinking?

Of course, I know the answer. We don’t know how to sail and don’t like the dungeon-like confinement of a sailboat. Diesels would’ve cost an extra 30,000 dollars. They’re smelly, dirty, and loud, and Wayne doesn’t know how to work on them. Besides, we figured it was unlikely that we we’d ever spend $30,000 dollars in gasoline in our lifetime. Our two 454s purr like kittens, well maybe lions, and we figured if it ain’t broke, don’t mess with it. Regarding our ambitious first cruise, Wayne either knows no fear, or had no idea what he was getting into, in spite of reading numerous articles and books about the perfect storm. I am with him because I avoided reading the books about storms, and I trust him. Regarding the timing of our trip, we left when we were ready which—six months past our intended departure date. So here we are, thousands of miles from home, in need of fuel, always heading into the wind, and hoping for a summer sans hurricanes.

The day dragged on. We passed the shores of Crooked Island and approached Acklin’s. During the nineteenth century, this island group of over 260 square miles was the most populated of all the Bahamas. When steam power replaced sail, shipping routes changed and the economy and as a result the population quickly diminished. Most of what remains are small fishing villages. We chose Attwood Harbor as our next anchorage. Here we might see pink flamingos and snorkel on the harbor’s fringe reefs.

We spotted it by 1 p.m. The water rose from a thousand feet deep to forty in a matter of moments, as we neared the reef that borders the island. We were looking for what was described as an “easy-to-spot, wide cut” that led into the harbor. An intermittent white line of breaking water paralleled the land.

“Is that it?” I asked, pointing towards an area that seemed calmer.

“Maybe, but the way point is that way,” Wayne said, pointing further to the right.

We headed toward the way point, then attempted to follow the directions, looking for the cut, looking for one of the Bahama’s rare beacons and Umbrella Rock. We inched closer, trying to get our bearings.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Wayne said, turning the boat around.

“That one looks kinda like an umbrella,” I said.

We tried again and again. Me, reading the directions for entry from the cruising guide, looking at aerial photos and charts. Both of us peering out over the water. Frustrating.

“We could just keep going?” I suggested.

“Keep going to where?”

“Betsy Bay,” I explained, pointing out Myaguana’s western shore on the chart.

“We’d be lucky to get there by dark,” Wayne said.

“I know, but its only 1:30, and when we get there, we can anchor. See, there are no obstructions.” I pointed to the chart. “The water is pretty calm, and I’ll do some of the driving.”

There must have been some comfort in knowing that we would be much closer to that gasoline, because Wayne agreed, and we headed west, leaving the potential of flamingos and fringe reefs in our wake. I quickly plotted way points to Myaguana. We rocked and rolled for hours.

Late in the afternoon, the southeastern sky went from blue to purple to black. The air thickened, and the temperature dropped. We checked our radar and saw a black smudge that covered half of the screen. There was no way around it. The darkness marched toward us like a horde of angry Huns. The seas built, as I stumbled about the boat, stashing the laptop, books and charts under the dash. Chris made a beeline for the cabin. We zipped up the isenglass and slid into yellow slickers. Visibility was reduced to zero when we hit the moving wall of rain. It angled through the screened sides of the bimini and pelted our faces. We watched the GPS and compass to stay on course.

Why did we keep going? I thought, shivering and cowering at Wayne’s side.

As quickly as it came, it left. Azure skies appeared through thinning clouds that passed overhead like puffs of gray smoke. The sun lowered behind us. I spotted the distant shores of Mayaguana just before the setting sun left us in inky blackness. Blinded by the light of the computer screen, we followed the blue lines of our route, no longer able to bend and flex in anticipation of the unseen waves that did their crazed dance beneath us. Ahead, all we could see was a scattering of misty amber lights that widened as we neared the small settlement of Betsy Bay.

When we estimated we were about two miles from shore, we slowed and lowered the lid to the laptop. Leaning forward, pressing our noses to the isenglass, we squinted into the dark, looking out for a local fisherman who may have ventured offshore in an unlit skiff.

When the depth sounder showed thirty feet, we dropped the hook, not knowing if it was in rocks, sand, or grass, but afraid to look for shallower water. If we broke loose, we would just drift back out to deep water. As long as the wind did not shift and swing the stern closer to shore, we were safe. When we shut down the engines, we could hear breaking of surf on the reef. But we couldn’t see it, and had no idea how close it was. We were too exhausted to even consider using an additional anchor. And, it might be even riskier to try to drop another considering the darkness, the strong current, the wind and our temperamental dinghy.

I sat on the bridge and watched the scratchy black lines on the GPS for a while, then went to bed. My sleep, that night, was restless.

Wahoo and a Bad Day

2009-12-08T09:12:00.000-08:00

For those who requested a map showing our route... This one shows Miami to Myaguana (our next destination).

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...

Super Male

2009-11-20T06:16:00.000-08:00

Friday, May 16, 2003

Today, we pulled up anchor, landed at the gas dock without any mishaps, filled the tanks, and covered our Kalik and juices with ice. We still needed water, but the place on Stocking that sold good water didn’t open until 11. Our next stop, Conception, was forty-three miles away, and not wanting to approach an unfamiliar anchorage in the late day sun, we were afraid to wait. The water at the marina, we were told, was well water and brackish. I pointed at the faucet.

“Would you drink that water?” I asked the gas attendant.

“Nah,” he grunted.

I ignored his poor manners. “Would you take a shower in it?” I asked.

He grumbled something unintelligible.

“Wayne, taste the water,” I said.

“I’m not going to taste it. You taste it,” he quipped.

I laughed and turned on the faucet, cupped my hands, and raised them to my lips.

“UMMM!” I said.

We filled up our tank, bought three gallons of the bottled variety for drinking, and took off, narrowly missing the gas pipes with the bow of our boat as we backed out of the fuel dock. There was a stiff wind, but I wondered when we’d ever be able to dock and/or leave without a near calamity.

Through rocks and coral and out of the long harbor, we set to sea. The water was choppy, but the waves were only two to three feet. We had twenty-two miles to go to Long Island’s northern tip, named Cape Santa Maria because Columbus’ ship by the same name ran aground there. As we approached the cape, the chop evolved to big rollers. They came into our starboard bow. The bow rose up over each roller, then crashed down into the trough, rocking the boat from side to side, as we tried to stay on course. I took the helm while Wayne napped. This time, there was no quiet reflection about waves and time. I stood, knees bending and swaying in anticipation of each coming wave.

Twelve miles from Conception, its silhouette appeared in the distance—at first just a smudge on the horizon, then a gray wavy line. Closer yet, its long white beach shimmered in the afternoon sun, and finally color emerged and I could make out hills and rocks and trees. We motored slowly between patch reefs and dropped our hook near shore on the lee side of the cay, sharing the anchorage with six sailboats and one seventy-foot yacht.

Later, laying back in our deck chairs with bare feet propped on the gunwhale, we watched as night fell, and one by one lights flickered on in the other boats. On the sailboats, they were yellow glowing rectangles and ovals. Long strings of rope lights outlined the yacht. The only sound was the quiet ripple of waves that spilled onto the beach. Then, a full moon rose in the darkness. It was so bright, we could see our moon shadows.

Saturday, May 17, 2003

Conception Island is a three by two mile national park, surrounded by reefs, and not frequently visited by cruisers as it is a little out of the way, and there are no amenities. By eleven, we had all of our snorkel gear loaded into the inflatable. We started off in search of the creek where according to our cruising guide we would see giant sea turtles cavorting in the shallows.

The creek entrance was two miles south. As we motored, a line of squalls passed in front of us. Three of them spanned the horizon. As the heavy clouds erupted, dark blurry curtains of rain hung from cloud bottom to water. The storms remained south of us. The rain missed us, but not the affect on the sea. The waves grew, and our little dinghy bounced up and over each one, a salty spray in our faces.

Around a point of land, we spotted the creek. Two huge amber coral heads narrowed the entrance like great stone sentinels. The tide flowing out of the creek and the surge of ocean trying to get in created white water rapids. On the other side, I could see pale blue green water that was as smooth as glass. I longed to be there, floating past cavorting turtles, my fingers trailing in the water, a calm washing over me from toes to head like an opiate. The dinghy bucked like a racehorse in the starting gate, and then Wayne gave it gas and headed between the coral heads.

“Oh, my God!” I screamed as the turbulance pushed us dangerously close to the coral. Wayne let off the throttle, and we were rudely shoved back to our starting point.

“Now what?” I shouted, looking back at Wayne.

“”Don’t know,” he admitted. “We could try rowing.”

He lifted the engine to keep it from scraping on coral. We each took an oar, and paddled furiously. And paddled. And paddled. We hadn’t moved.

Wayne, standing in the dinghy now, scanned for safe passage. None found. Heading back, we checked the shoreline for a place to beach the dinghy and walk to the creek, but on this side of the island it was too rocky for a soft dinghy or the bottom of my feet for that matter.

“Sorry Babe,” Wayne said, “I just don’t think we can get in there today.”

He motored to a small cay, just off the other end of the park. On a soft pinkish beach, we slipped on our fins and masks, then swam towards some rocks jutting out of the water. There were a few colorful fish, but the water was very shallow, and it gave me the heebie jeebies. If I needed to check my mask or my location, I couldn’t tread water. It was too shallow, and I didn’t want to stand up for fear of disturbing coral or perhaps some bottom creature hiding in the sand. I turned back, and contently watched Wayne from the beach.

He looked up and cupped his hands to his mouth. I heard, “Er er er.”

“What?” I shouted back.

“Er er sper!”

“Bring the spear?” I questioned, making a fork with my fingers.

I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure what he said, and he looked very far away with all of that creepy shallow water between us, so I ignored his request. He continued snorkeling. When I looked again, he was raising his arms in exasperation. I took a deep breath and plunged in, swimming as hard and fast as I could, the long yellow spear in my right hand. I was there in less than a minute—not very far, just a vivid imagination at work. Wayne took the spear and pointed me towards some good snorkeling.

It was much deeper near the rocks. I swam with surgeonfish, roundish fish that always look like they’re smiling, because of a dark line that accentuates their gills. The big eye of a puffer peaked at me from behind a rock. Parrotfish of all types glided in and out of view. The best sighting of the day was a stoplight parrotfish supermale. Stoplight parrots are black and white-checkered like a racing flag. They have red bellies and tails and can range in size from eight inches to fifteen. But a female stoplight parrot can change sex when it gets older. When this happens, it’s known as a supermale. It transforms from a red, white and black creature to a huge brilliantly colored green and turquoise one with bright yellow spots on its tail and a hot pink line under its gills. Like the puffer, the supermale hid in a crevice, and we both hovered there for some time staring at each other.

Back at the beach, my supermale arrived with a peacock flounder and a schoolmaster stuck on the prongs of his spear. The schoolmaster’s yellow tail twitched.

“Yeh! Dinner!” I said.

“Did you see that puffer?” Wayne asked, trying to catch his breath. “I considered taking it, but it just stared at me with those big cow eyes, and I couldn’t shoot it.”

“Are they good to eat?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

“I heard they’re really good,” he answered.

When we got back to the boat, I looked up the puffer in the Florida Fish Book, and found out that yes, they taste good, but if you don’t clean them properly they can be poisonous. We decided not to chance it should another opportunity arise.

Wayne started to clean his catch. Chris the Cat stood on the gunwhale and poked his nose close to the knife while Wayne tried to fillet the flounder. He pushed the cat away with the top of his hand. Chris meowed in protest. Wayne lowered the knife back to the fish. The nose came down on the knife again. Wayne pushed him away. This went on repeatedly until the task was complete.

Wayne gave Chris his share, cut some bait for fishing, and put scraps in a plastic bag for later use. While we ate dinner, Chris had his. Then he ate all of the fish left on the bait tray, and finally he dragged the ziplock into the salon and started tearing it apart with claws and teeth. This cat loves fish.

When the big yellow sun set and a soft breeze cooled the air, I pulled a light rod from its spot above the salon door. The cat dashed about bumping past my legs, tripping me up as I moved around the deck. I managed to rig and bait my line. I cast into the water. Chris sat on the gunwhale and watched—first the water, then the line, then the reel. He’d wander off, but not too far. When I reeled in a bit, he was right at my side again, looking down into the water. I think he was more disappointed than I that no fish was hooked.

During the night I awoke to find an empty spot beside me. Lifting my head from the pillow, I looked up and out through the salon doors to the deck. Wayne was staring at the sky. I left him alone, settled back into my pillow, and closed my eyes. After a while, he came below and slid quietly into bed beside me. Later, I would learn he’d been watching an eclipse of the moon. It would’ve been nice to see it, but I was glad I pretended to be asleep. This is a small boat for two people and he needs to have his moments, just like I need to have mine.

A Long Way From Home

2009-11-11T14:38:00.000-08:00

Monday, May 12, 2003

Today, we said goodbye to Staniel Cay and made a wavy track between a mine field of hazards, through a choppy cut, and into the deep blue water of the Exuma Sound, a welcome change after three trips on the Bank. Winds were predicted to be ten knots and seas at two to four, so we opted for the express route to Georgetown.

Originally, I planned on bypassing this cruising mecca. I thought it was a big city. It’s not. After pouring over cruising guides and charts, I realized that the popularity of certain spots is directly related to important factors, like a good safe harbor, an easy approach, the fact that it is on the way to somewhere else, and the availability of amenities like fresh water and fuel. So we decided not to be different just to be different and added Georgetown to our route.

We had fifty-seven miles to go, our longest leg since Bimini to Chub. The day seemed endless, to our left nothing in sight but deep blue, then light blue sky patched with a few thinning cumulous clouds. To our right was a long string of islands. They looked like the wavy stroke of a paint brush—sometimes fat, sometimes thin. The line tapered to nothing as we neared the end of one island, then started again with the next. Approaching a cut, we could see the white caps formed by the cross-currents, as water from the bank rushed out to meet the stronger water of the sound. Fighting the current, as we passed, we caught glimpses of the flat turquoise water on the other side. Most of the islands were uninhabited, except for an occasional small settlement, or a large house high atop a hill overlooking both bank and sound, most likely the winter home of a wealthy American or Canadian.

I passed the time by reading to Wayne. Like many cruiser-friendly establishments, the Yacht Club provided a free book exchange. There we found Waikzen’s “Water & Light,” a true story about a man who went to Grand Turk to dive and find his “underwater self.” From page one, we were captivated by the writing and the subject. When the author mentioned a fish he’d seen, we stopped and looked it up in our field guide.

Later when I started to get hoarse, we just stood and stared ahead, mesmerized by the continuous motion.

“Are you happy?” I asked Wayne.

“Very,” he replied, “but I’m still wondering what I’m doing here. It’s one thing to talk about doing it, but quite another to actually be doing it.”

Like Wayne, I felt a long way from home. I took the wheel while Wayne napped and drove the last few hours, hearing nothing but the steady hum of the big engines, floating over each wave as if in a trance.

I find myself throughout the days writing this journal in my head. Today was no different. Comparing the incessant surge of waves to the passing of time may be trite, best saved for corny poems, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the metaphor. I analyzed it.

Like time, these waves have no beginning and no end. They pass by me like the moments of my life. If I go too slowly, I’d drift wherever the waves take me. If too fast, I’d miss enjoying everything around me. Instead, I move at a moderate pace, purposely, but trying to savor each moment.

Maybe I can get a job at Hallmark when this trip is over, I thought. Wayne’s snoring was interrupted by a snort. I turned. He looked so peaceful. I hoped to get all the way to Georgetown before he woke up. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for him? I checked the GPS. This is soooooooooo boring, I thought.

Georgetown’s huge harbor looked inviting as we negotiated Conch Cut, and made a turn to port. The harbor lies between Great Exuma where we would find Georgetown and a string of barrier islands, the largest of which is Stocking. The anchorage runs along Stocking Island’s seven miles of sandy shore, then makes a right turn reaching a mile to Georgetown proper. At Stocking you can find Hamburger and Volleyball Beaches, so named because of activities organized for and by boaters. They share information on an informal “Cruiser’s Net” each morning on the VHF radio. At Regatta time in March, over 600 boats crowd into this harbor, and it’s elbow to elbow in the stores and bars. But the season is now drawing to a close, so there were only about fifty boats scattered in the expansive anchorage.

Stocking looked like a great place to anchor, but once again we dropped the hook as close as possible to town, due to our unreliable dinghy. And it was a wise choice, too.

Tuesday

This morning when we headed in for our first visit, we were not a hundred yards from our boat, when the motor stalled, and we had to row in. Luckily, the current was in our favor, guiding us under a small bridge. It spanned a manmade cut into a large round lake, encircled by the streets of the town.

Georgetown aimed to please with its well-stocked grocery, marine, and hardware stores, free trash disposal, and free water. The water turned out to be brackish, but you could buy reverse osmosis water. There were cyber cafes, eating and drinking establishments, as well as numerous free dinghy docks that were very well maintained. There was an airport, if you were meeting up with someone from the states, taxis, scooter and car rental for exploring the island, and a Customs and Immigration office for checking in or extending your cruising permit.

The town was small and buzzing with activity, as locals, tourist, and bedraggled cruisers milled about the small shops in the downtown area. They dodged cars and trucks that zipped by on the dusty, paved roads. Children in crisply-pressed cotton uniforms, each with a different colored checkered top depending on the school they attended, hung in front of stores eating frozen treats. There were policemen here (the first we’ve seen in the Bahamas) in clean white shirts with epaulets, but apparently crime is of little concern, evidenced by the fact that no one locked their dinghies. The houses were modest by North American standards, but larger than those seen at other ports. Like most of the restaurants and stores, they looked tired, perhaps a sign of an economy that was a bit on a downside.

Our itinerary included trash disposal, acquisition of new spark plugs for the outboard and generator, inquiries regarding disposal of oil, grocery shopping, the search for washers for our leaky shower head, and a visit to the bank for more cash. I spent all of our cash buying gas to avoid a four to six percent credit card surcharge.

First and foremost on our list was spark plugs. We checked at the marina. They had spark plugs, but no cross-reference. They directed us to the garage. It was big. Every rusty shock and tail pipe, stiffened and cracked belt, and various and sundry other part that they’d ever removed from a car for the last forty years was hanging on the wall or tucked on a greasy shelf or stowed on the floor. There were no bays or tools in site. In fact, when we later asked to borrow a pair of pliers, it took a good ten minutes for “Daddy” to find one, as he fumbled through a rusty filing cabinet.

“Daddy” moved slowly, opening a grimy metal cabinet to reveal hundreds of oily boxes of spark plugs, arranged in no particular order. His long fingers quivered, as he pulled out each box. They looked tiny in his hands. He held them close to his nose, and examined each one.

Finally, his son came to our rescue. He was a rolly-polly and cheerful fellow with a wide smile that pushed his cheeks out like two brown apples. He pulled the tattered, dirty cross-reference books from the top of the cabinet, some dating back to the seventies, others in Spanish. He looked up the appropriate numbers while Daddy continued to finger the small boxes. Forty minutes later, we had four plugs for our outboard and a pair of pliers to aid in the installation. No spark plugs for the generator.

The old man gave us a ride back to the center of town in his rattlely pickup. Wayne went to work installing the new spark plugs, while I went to the bank. The bank was closed, and the outboard still wouldn’t start. Dejected, we had lunch and a beer, bought some washers, and canned the rest of our plans. We sat at an outdoor bar called “The Turtle Inn” talking with other cruisers, who later towed us back to our boat, came aboard, and stayed until the wee hours.

Wednesday

Most of the day we did boat chores. Wayne worked on the outboard and the generator, and got them both running. Our water maker, however, is making salt water, and we don’t know why.

Late in the afternoon, we went back to town, returned the pliers, and bought me a new hat at the straw market. Then, we walked a couple of miles along the main road out of town to the “Fish Fry.” Here, ten shacks each painted a different color lined the beach. The fare was Bahamian—cracked conch, chicken, ribs, grouper fingers, conch salad, peas and rice, coleslaw and of course cold beer. Due to our frolicking the night before, we opted for Coca Cola.

It was not yet the dinner hour, and many of the shacks were closed. The turquoise one, called the Outdeck appeared to be open and we went in, the screen door slamming behind us. We walked to the counter. A young woman was talking to her boyfriend, another folded napkins. There were no other patrons. We stood there waiting, not wanting to interrupt the conversation. Both women ignored us.

“Excuse me,” I said to the napkin folder, “Are you open?”

Finally the socializer came over and took our order. We waited outside on the deck overlooking the pale, blue green water. The waitress arrived with Styrofoam boxes, and mumbled something about flies, so we went back inside to eat. A couple flies followed us in, but the food was hot and tasty, and the portions more than generous. While we ate, we decided to rent a car the next day to explore the rest of Great Exuma Island.

Thursday

Today, car rental day, we should’ve stayed in bed. I was excited as I prepared for the day. The plan was this—arrive early to pick up the car, stop by immigration to renew our cruising permit, visit the Shark Lady, buy homemade bread from Mom’s bakery, and see the ancient tombs on the south end of the island, then explore the North end of the island, buy local produce, and have lunch at the highly recommended Fisherman’s Inn. We wanted to be back at the boat by three or four to fill up the gas tanks, re-anchor at Stocking and dinghy back and forth to retrieve the reverse osmosis water sold there. Now that I write this, I realize I must have been absolutely crazy to plan such a full day.

Since the car was air-conditioned, we decided to take Chris the Cat with us. He likes riding. We arrived at the car rental facility, located above the bank. They shared the office with Percy Fox (Justice of the Peace, legal document specialist, and real estate agent). It was 8:10 am, and Mr. Fox informed us politely that the car renter would not arrive until 9. No worry, we would go to the bakery and get some bread or pastries for breakfast. But the bakery didn’t have any bread or pastries. Huh? No matter, we would go to the immigration office and take care of our paperwork. But, there was a sign on the door providing a phone number to call. We called the number and learned that the office would open at 9:30. No problemo, we would walk up to where Mom parks her white van each morning at 8:30 to see her delicious pastries, pies, and bread, while giving out big hugs to one and all. But there was no van. So we sat on the wall next to the pink bank, and watched the town slowly come to life.

The steering wheel was on the wrong side of our rented car and a big red sticker on the inside of the windshield reminded us to “Keep Left.” At the immigration building, Wayne collected forms and was told to return after 2. We headed south on the long paved road towards Williamstown. Each time a car zoomed by, Wayne veered to the left into the potholes on the side of the road. He scraped branches and narrowly missed stone walls. I held on to the dash.

There was a new small town every five miles or so, each comprised of twenty concrete houses with faded and chipped paint. They grew smaller and poorer, the further we got from Georgetown. Some houses sported hand-painted signs advertising a grocery or a restaurant, They were shabby-looking, we couldn’t tell if they were open, and we weren’t tempted to stop even though we were starving by this time. Our cruising guide mentioned a restaurant at the end of the road, but when we got there, like everything else, it was closed. Checked another—closed too. So we stopped at a small convenience store which was really just someone’s living room and bought a pack of cookies and a slice of cheesecake.

Our next stop was at the remains of a loyalist plantation. Pulling the car over to the side next to a salt pond, we climbed a loosely packed dirt road to the top where we found an old rusted canon
and a thirty-foot tall Greek style concrete column. At one time, it was used as a beacon to guide ships coming to port to pick up loads of salt. It towered above our heads, white against a blue sky. To our west we saw the large pale brown pond, its borders encrusted with salt. To our east white caps flickered in the sun on a bright blue ocean.

Back in the car, we cranked up the AC. It seemed a bit inadequate now that the sun was rising high in the sky. Our next stop was to visit Gloria Patience, “The Shark Lady.” She co-wrote a book and we remembered her from a National Geographic special about sharks. In the documentary, she was a spry and slender white-haired woman who had devoted her life to diving with sharks and studying their behavior.

Our cruising guide suggested stopping by her house for a visit. She had turned it into a museum, of sorts. We found her house, left the car running so Chris could enjoy the air conditioning, and walked up the drive past her overgrown garden to her front door. Sea shells were strewn about on small wooden stools. I tapped timidly on the door—no answer.

“Ring the bell,” Wayne whispered, and I looked up and saw a ship’s bell.

“Clang, Clang, Clang.” There was no answer from inside, but we roused the lady next door.

She poked her head out her door and said, “Come roun ta da side door, and goes rie din!”

The screen door squeaked open and we stepped from bright sunlight into “The Shark Lady’s” large kitchen. It smelled sweet and musty. Antique kitchenware hung from the walls and covered dusty shelves. A large wooden table with enough chairs for fifteen dominated the room. A collection of knives hung from the back wall.

“Hello.” I said, then paused, hearing nothing but the sounds of a television somewhere else in the house.

“Hello,” I sang out again “Mrs. Patience?” Still no answer.

“I feel funny,” I whispered as I crept forward.

“Me, too,” Wayne said coming up behind me. We peeked into the living room.

“Come on down,” Johnny Olson bellowed. The room looked empty, but then I spotted her in the corner. She was seated in a worn armchair, staring at the TV, a tray of food in front of her.

“She’s eating her lunch,” I whispered again.

Finally, Wayne walked past me, past a bottle and stoneware collection to where the old woman sat. She didn’t seem surprised to see two strangers in her living room and invited us to sit down. I sat on the edge of the sofa and looked around. There was stuff on shelves, on the walls, in the rafters, and on tables. Family pictures were propped on shark jaws. Old ship parts, old bottles, seashells, plaques, and lord knows what else—I simply couldn’t take it all in during our short visit.

Mrs. Patience had put on some weight since the filming of her documentary. Her tan and freckled skin sagged from her arms in long ridges. They hung over the top of her strapless blue sarong. It didn’t quite close in the front revealing unsolicited peaks at more brown wrinkled skin. She was not wearing her teeth. We introduced ourselves, apologized for interrupting her lunch, and inquired about getting a copy of her book.

“Don’t have no more books,” she grunted when finished gnawling, “Had one copy autographed by the publisher and someone stole it.”

“Your last book?” I said, “How awful! Are you printing more?”

“No. That would cost five thousand,” she said then took a drink of her coconut milk. “They changed all of my stories anyway.”

Mrs. Patience was recovering from a blood clot in her leg, but would be out on the water again in her boat fishing for small fish. She doesn’t go after the big ones anymore.

“I bought this house forty-eight years ago,” she said proudly. I looked up at plaster peeling from a huge wooden beam. “It used to be a one-room post office.”

We talked a little longer and she told us two more times about the house and the post office, so we politely excused ourselves citing the fact that we had a cat in the car who was probably getting very hot.

Further down the road, we visited what were purported to be “ancient tombs.” We thought they were going to be Lucayan burial sites, but instead we found an old, uneven graveyard.

Huge slabs of grey rock and broken pieces scattered about. Graves were caved in. Headstones were hand-carved and broken. The oldest we found was from the late 19th century. Most of the dead were named “Rolle,” a very common name in the Bahamas, as most are descendants of slaves owned by a man named Rolle. When they were freed, they took his name. As a matter of fact, the actress, Esther Rolle, is one of his descendants. The not-so-ancient graveyard was bordered by a stacked stone wall. We wondered how they were able to dig graves without the aid of a jack hammer, and like our visit to The Shark Lady, I felt like I was intruding on someone else’s personal turf.

Back in the car, it was getting very hot in spite of the fact that the AC had been running constantly. We were starting to sweat, as we headed for the north end of the island. Chris draped over the console and panted. We directed all of the vents towards him. After all, he was wearing a fur coat. This made it even more uncomfortable for us, and we were hungry, too, so we headed north towards the island of Barre Terre. It’s connected to Great Exuma by a causeway. There was just enough time to drive to the Fisherman’s Inn, have lunch and get back to Immigration at 2 or 2:30. We didn’t stop at any more tombs, didn’t look for pothole farms, or locals engaged in traditional boat-building. Instead, we saw abandoned hotels and resorts, rental cottages, and the signs of new construction. A portion of the road ran along the beach, and the wide shoulder was landscaped with sea grasses and big red flowering shrubs.

“Guess they want to make it look like Florida’s west coast for the tourists,” I said. “But it is beautiful,” I finally admitted.

We came to the construction site of a four Seasons Resort, an immense complex with condos, and a golf course. Later, we passed the pretentious gated entrances to “executive-style” housing projects. All of this was slowly encroaching on the small towns strung along the coast.

We finally arrived at the restaurant, stood on the deck and looked out over the aqua water.

A couple sat at the bar. The rest of the restaurant was empty.

“Are you serving lunch?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” the young waitress replied.

“May we look at a menu?” I pressed on.

“You could,” she answered, “but all we got is chicken."

Oh, shit, I thought looking at Wayne. I could see his patience growing thin with this whole excursion.

We drank a coke, and then headed back, stopping at another restaurant along the way, but at 2 P.M., they were no longer serving lunch. The three of us were hot and hungry. I smoothed cold water on the cat’s head, and he let me. The air and the mood in the car was thicker than a Bahama Mama’s waist. Seems Wayne had driven all that way just to please me, and even though I hadn’t insisted, he was now hot, tired, feeling ill from not eating, and it was all my fault.

Back in Georgetown, the door to the one-room immigration office was locked, so we went next door to the Peace and Plenty Hotel for lunch. The place was crowded with tourists. We sat for ten minutes before the waitress approached us, handed us a menu, and walked away.

The fare was American, and the only thing Wayne could eat was a tuna salad sandwich or grilled cheese. We rotate lunches daily on the boat—tuna, cheese, tuna, cheese.

“Oh, look!” I pointed to the menu, “They have a daily Bahamian special.” When the Waitress returned with our iced tea, I asked, “What’s the daily special?”

“No special.”

After lunch, we checked immigration again and were able to extend our cruising permit, before running all of our errands. At the duty-free liquor store, a fifth of Absolut was only ten dollars, and rum was inexpensive, too. We loaded bags and boxes into our dinghy, and returned to the boat. By the time, we got unloaded, it was 4:20. Too tired to continue with our plan to re-anchor and retrieve water, we called it a day.

“We’ll figure out how to get water tomorrow,” I assured Wayne.

My feeling about Georgetown? Although, we found most of the Bahamian people to be happy and friendly, the waitresses and some of the storekeepers provided atrocious service. I can’t understand how Bahamians can talk so fast, and move so slow. When you go into a restaurant they look at you like they’re not sure why you’re there, then go about their business without greeting you. Wayne kept reminding me that this isn’t New York, but I felt that it reached beyond just a laid-back Caribbean pace to a lacksidaisical attitude and just plain bad business. Many restaurants include a 15% gratuity on the check, and I can understand why. And regarding food selection, they had printed menus, but then only one or two items from the menu were available. I’ll be curious to see how Georgetown will change, as vacationers start visiting the huge Four Seasons resort, and travel into town to experience a little local color. I tend to think that Georgetown businesses are going to have to raise their professionalism a notch, if they want to survive. Nonetheless, I’m glad that I got to see the island, before Ronald McDonald raised his golden arches.

Wonder Woman

2009-11-06T11:22:00.000-08:00

Sunday, May 11, 2003 (Mother’s Day)

Friday morning, we left Bell Island for another short run. The sun was just beginning its slow rise from the horizon, and again the fifteen knot east to southeast wind blew in our faces. We rode out past the sand bores into the Bank, then perpendicular to the now-familiar long pale fingers, then turned to port to approach Staniel Cay. Staniel is fast becoming a popular cruising destination for those who find Georgetown, further south, a bit too crowded.

The harbor is formed by the cut between Staniel and the uninhabited Big Majors Cays. Although there are a number of good anchorages nestled within the Big Majors, we opted to set our hook right in the harbor, close to town, and a very easy dinghy ride to the Thunderball Grotto, made famous when James Bond’s Thunderball was filmed here in 1964. It’s an underwater cave that you can snorkel, and this activity is on our list of “things to do at Staniard Cay."

For two people who wanted to avoid the hussle of Nassau and see the backcountry and small towns of the Bahamas, we were elated to be back to civilization. We could dump trash, wash clothes, buy groceries, and have a drink in a bar. Our two-year-old cruising guide indicated that Club Thunderball had coin-operated washing machines.

I held the VHF mike to my mouth. “Club Thunderball, Club Thumberball, Clug Thunderball. This is the Ella McQuaid. Do ya copy?”

A staticy voice responded, “Thunderball.”

I asked about the laundry, but like the dump at Norman’s, it was no longer available.

“Dey all be broken,” she said of the washers and dryers, “But da lady at da Blue Store, she do yo’ washin’ fo ten dolla’ a bag.”

Laundry or no laundry, our first stop was Club Thunderball. After all, you must keep your priorities straight, and ours was a cold drink and some conch fritters. The restaurant sat high on the hill on the east end of the island. We parked our dinghy at a well-maintained wharf, just as a twenty-footer arrived and the happy fishermen began tossing mahi mahi onto the dock.

“Look at all of the fish they caught,” I said. “How come their catching fish and we’re not?” Wayne ignored me.

We clambered up a steep path bordered by small palms and flowering shrubs, adding texture and splashes or yellow and red to an otherwise stark landscape. Two skinny cats greeted us on the steps to the club. Next to the door was a primitive mural featuring toothy natives, buxom women, and salty sailors who all looked like they were having too much fun.

Inside, we were the only patrons in a large room with a horseshoe shaped bar to our left, a few tables and booths next to it, a pair of pool tables in the center, and to our right, rows of rectangular tables lined up end to end. There were more screened windows then walls. The walls were covered with pictures—some of the Thunderball movie crew, some of Jimmy Buffet and a local drummer jamming at the club. There were works by a popular Bahamian artist named Blackman, and a collage of prints celebrating local sailors who’d won the Long Island Regatta in 1995. (This Long Island is in the Bahamas, not New York).

The barmaid, as wide as she was tall, looked up from her work when we pulled up stools and greeted her, then looked back down. Finally, she hobbled over to take our order. Wayne had a Kalik, and I had the house specialty—a Thunderball Smash, made up of a variety of fruit juices, and three, count them, one… two… three… types of rum. She told us about the Friday Night Barbecue, reservations required, not uncommon in the Bahamas. Many restaurants need a headcount for the evening meal.

To get to town from Thunderball, we could’ve walked down a long and dusty road carrying garbage bags, however, we opted to dinghy around to the Staniel Cay Yacht Club for trash disposal.

“I only paid for two bags,” Wayne snickered, as he carried three bags off to the dumpster.

I just shook my head. I’m long past chastising him when he has a moral lapse. It doesn’t do any good, and I think they occur less frequently now, because I fail to react. I knew when I married a “bad boy” that I shouldn’t expect him to miraculously turn into an exemplary citizen. Nor would I want him to.

Back in the dinghy, we motored past the yacht club’s picturesque rental cottages, one yellow, own bright green, one pink, one blue, one orange. They were small and shingled and stood on stilts. They hugged the left side of a small cove. The last cottage sat at the start of the public beach, actually two beaches shaded by casurina trees. The two were separated by a large arc of concrete wall, once painted brightly with the words “Welcome to Staniel Cay,” but faded now by sun and sea. We pulled the dinghy ashore, and walked up the narrow beach to a cracked and potted macadam road. There we saw a couple with plastic bags hanging from their pockets and belts.

“What are you doing?” Wayne asked.

They told us they were collecting lizards and pointed out the varieties they’d captured. The differences were too subtle for my untrained eye, except for the ones whose tail rolled up into a perfectly-shaped curlicue.

“Good protection from cats,” I said, thinking of all the de-tailed lizards we’d left in our trail.

A sign directed us to the right on a road that spiraled up a hill to the stores. We passed small stucco houses, painted in pastels. The yards were landscaped, but dusty. Bougainvillia draped over limestone walls, marking each homestead. There were no cars, an occasional golf cart. The whole town was only three blocks long by three blocks wide, but we still stopped and asked directions from a young man who was single-handedly building a house.

At the top of the hill we found The Blue Store. It was painted royal blue and stood next to the Pink Store that was painted (Can you guess?) hot pink. Both stores were owned by people named Smith, and I wondered if some family feud accounted for the competition, or was everyone in Staniel named Smith.

Inside, the stores looked like many others in the Bahamas, large white refrigerators sparsely filled with wilted produce and softened chunks of cheese, a chest filled with freezer-burned meat and another crammed with misshapen loaves of bread and quarts of milk. Canned goods were limited with only a can or two of each product. You were likely to find the canned peaches tucked in between the Drano and the tuna fish.

After we made our purchases and inquiries, we wound our way back down the quiet lanes past the rainbow-colored cottages to the Staniel Cay Yacht Club for another cold one. If the term “Yacht Club” brings to mind gleaming white motor yachts, and men in double-breasted blazers, think again. This one looks like any small marina with a neighborhood bar and restaurant like so many found on rivers and creeks in the states. A crowd gathered around visiting fishermen who cleaned their day’s catch, while others sat under the shade of a wooden veranda, gulping beer and laughing boisterously. Inside the screened restaurant and bar, we found round tile-covered tables with big chairs made out barrels, painted turquoise. Down a step, lined-up tables, just like at the Thunderball. They were covered with white linens. Sparkling glasses were turned upside down, next to stoneware plates, neatly set for a 7:30 seating where patrons would share them.

We sat at the bar and chatted with an American couple who owned a house on the island. They came for a month at a time, about three times a year.

There are two types of vacationers, I thought as I sipped my beer. One type finds a place they like and they keep going back. These are the people who buy timeshares or condos at the beach, or cabins on a lake or in the mountains. Their RV never moves once they get it to their favorite KOA. The other type of vacationer travels the seas by boat, or the highways, or sky. The means does not matter. What matters is that they’re always seeing something new.

When we used to take long weekend fishing trips, I’d get out our map and find a place on the water, away from a city, a place where we’d never been and that’s where we’d go. That was always fun. This trip, however, is an eternal weekend. What we’re doing is exciting, but sometimes I miss the familiarity of a place.

After a nap, we headed back to Club Thunderball for the barbecue. The place was packed with people. They stood in small groups sipping cocktails. A new friend would arrive and they’d greet him loudly, opening their circles just wide enough to let one more person in. It felt like we were crashing a private party. We saw the couple we met at the bar. They nodded, then slid into a booth with their friends.

A white sheet that was hanging over a pass-through to the kitchen was removed, and the crowd lined up to get heaping plates of ribs, chicken, peas and rice, corn on the cob, and cole slaw. The cook made grouper fingers for Wayne. The tables were filling up and we found our way to the nearly empty “outcast” table, where we dined and talked with a father and son team who were cruising the Exumas.

The conversation was interesting enough, but I would’ve liked to talk to a woman. I normally hang out with the guys at parties where I don’t know a lot of people. While the women stay in the kitchen and talk about babies or grandchildren or shopping sprees at outlet malls, I’m guzzling beers with the boys and discussing the latest books we’ve read. Or in many cases, talking pure nonsense which is still preferable to the woman talk. But tonight, I wanted woman talk. Was it because I missed my kids? Did I miss shopping? Was it because I hadn’t had more than a two minute conversation with another woman for over a month? Don’t know.

Once the last crumbs of the chocolate cake were pressed onto forks, the crowd thinned quickly, leaving no opportunity for drunken bonding at the bar. Bellies full, thirst sated, they were all tucked into their beds by ten, as were we.

Saturday

Saturday morning, after boat chores, we headed back to shore. The sun was already hot on our backs as we climbed the hill toting two large duffels of dirty clothes to the little black lady in The Blue Store. She runs the market and does all of the laundry while her husband sleeps on the stoop or weaves small change purses out of palm fronds.

Then we walked around to the west end of the island, over a bridge that spanned a small creek to the third store, purported to carry marine supplies. We were not the first to arrive at the locked screen door. Soon more people came and waited. Finally, someone went and roused the proprietor from his house to let us in. Wayne was in search of stainless steel bolts, and the one-armed storekeeper held the tiny cardboard boxes tightly against his chest with his stump, while picking through the hardware with his only hand. He guffawed at Wayne’s jokes. His teeth looked huge and white against his black face. Turns out they didn’t have the screws Wayne needed, but I bought two cans of New Zealand butter, no refrigeration required until opened.

On the way back to the beach we walked over the crest of the hill, and spotted a pale pink stucco church—so pretty, we had to pause just a moment to admire it. The front portal had identical arched openings on either side, so that from the hill, it formed a window to the blue green waters beyond.

At the bottom of the hill, we passed the church and the road turned to parallel the beach. Through the trees we could hear children playing. “Marco…Polo…Marco…Polo.”

I drifted back to the suburban neighborhood where I spent my pre-teen and teen years. It was considered waterfront, because it was on a wide creek, but only the very brave or the very foolish would dip into Marley Creek’s polluted waters. Instead, we spent our summers at the pool, and each summer I heard those words a million times---Marco…Polo…Marco…Polo. The community was ostentatiously called “Country Club Estates,” but was really a middle-class, blue-collar neighborhood, a misnomer not unlike the “Staniel Cay Yacht Club.”

Shopping over, we dragged our inflatable, named Fido (after our now-deceased Persian cat) up onto the beach under the shade of the casarinas. Wayne removed the outboard and placed it on a tarp. We flipped the boat over, and scraped barnacles from her bottom.

“I thought I was finished cleaning Fido’s bottom,” Wayne joked, and anyone who’s had an old long-haired cat will know what he was referring to.

Concerning my bottom, I got the tan on the back of my thighs, not by lying on a sandy, white, Caribbean beach, but by bending over and scraping.

While we are on the subject of bottoms, I can’t get into the dinghy after snorkeling. Seems my upper body strength is inadequate and my center of gravity is too low in the water. The last attempt, I thought Wayne was going to dislocate my shoulder pulling me into the boat, and if our hands had slipped, he would’ve toppled over backwards. So when Fido’s bottom was smooth as a baby’s and we returned to the Ella McQuaid, Wayne installed a ladder on the dinghy, while I did pull ups and chin ups from the swim platform in the warm, clear water.

Sunday - Mother's Day

What a day! Those who know me well, know I’m a big chicken at heart. I’m not a thrill seeker. I’ve never sky-dived, bungee-jumped or eaten a grub. Roller coasters make me as sick as horror movies. Being scared to death does not make me feel more alive. But today…today I conquered two fears and performed one amazing feat of athletic prowess.

The plan was to go to the grotto, but on the way back to the boat to deposit our clean laundry and pick up snorkel gear, the outboard stalled. Another cruiser spotted us rowing against the current, and was kind enough to tow us to our boat. Wayne spent three hours in the scorching sun, messing with spark plugs before disassembling the carburetor, then putting it back together. He pulled the cord, and it came to life.

We motored around to the entrance of the cave and tied our boat to a mooring ball. The rock, the size of a football field, was eroded, holey, and jagged. It rose thirty feet above sea-level and was capped with a web of green vines.

Fear # 1

One of my two fears was that if we didn’t visit the site at low tide, I wouldn’t be able to swim under the ledge into the cave, and my concern was reinforced as there was another woman there who seemed to be having the same problem. I’d carefully planned the perfect time for our visit when the tide was low and slack, but we’d been delayed by three hours with the outboard ordeal. Now the rock loomed in front of me, a giant obstacle, as I bounced gently in the little rubber boat.

Apprehensively, I put on my mask and flippers and dropped over the edge of the boat into water cooled by the shade of the big rock. I began swimming towards it. Fish appeared before my mask, darting back and forth to take me in, both literally and figuratively. Immediately enthralled by the sights, I paddled slowly looking at fish and coral, stopping abruptly when I bumped my head on the rock.

I had no way of knowing how far I would have to swim underwater to get into the cave, and I was afraid to try. What if I got halfway and ran out of air? Furthermore, I am really buoyant. What if I floated up and scraped my back on the craggy rocks, or worse yet what if there were mussels, or barnacles, or, even worse, something slimy growing there? I swam along the edge looking for a taller opening.

To my left I saw a large boulder that looked like it‘d been pulled away from the rock, just like the one from Sunday School pictures of Jesus’ tomb. I inched my way between the boulder and the rock, trying not to touch either and terrified at what might be lurking around the corner. Lo and behold, I found a tall entrance and I swam right in.

Oh, the sight of it! Our exclamations echoed from the twenty-five foot ceiling. Openings above our heads let in shafts of bright sunlight. It was like being inside a huge igloo. I treaded water and did a slow 180. A cormorant looked down at us from a hole in the ceiling, his cheeks quivering to cool his body. A few stalactites were forming on the sides where the walls sloped down to water level. At the opposite end of the cave, the ceiling lowered to ten feet forming a dark tunnel, a thin line of light at the end. Under water, the thin line ballooned into a round glowing blue portal to the outside. In it, I could see the shadows of fish and an occasional glint of silver, then the black silhouette of a barracuda hovering there, like he was guarding the door.

The other snorkelers left and we had the place to ourselves. Wayne took pictures with an underwater camera, while I explored. Note from 2009: I have no idea what happened to those pictures. Beneath the surface, streams of light from above were yellow moonbeams illuminating every bubble and every bit of plankton, like snow crystals flying about in headlights. Shimmering fish were dancers on a stage, all shapes and sizes and colors. They darted in and out of the spotlight, against a backdrop of coral and sea plants. Bob Mackie couldn’t have designed such beautiful costumes.

Outside, we explored the rock face. I cautiously inched into a crevice, and as my iris adjusted, large yellowtail emerged from the darkness. They were lined up in rows and columns against the black wall. I backed out, and saw the iridescent blue, green, and yellow of a queen angelfish, then the distinctive shape and black and gold of a French angel. She was as big as a cookie sheet, and floated upside down, as she feasted on sponges.

Exhausted, but exhilarated, we swam back to the dinghy only to discover that we'd forgotten to attach the ladder to its shiny new brackets.

Amazing Feat of Athletic Prowess

Take my hand,” Wayne said, reaching out to me.

“No!” I said, “I can do it!” I hate being pulled and pushed back into the boat. It makes me feel like a beached whale.

I pushed with my flippers, my torso rose from the water, but I didn’t have the strength in my arms to push up and pull myself over the edge. I tried putting a leg in first, but as I grasped for something inside the boat to hold on to, my other leg slid under the boat, and I cut my toe on the only barnacle we had missed. Both legs in didn’t work either. My bottom hung in the water like a rock in a sock. Wayne made me a loop of rope to step into. I took off my flippers, and inserted my foot, but the loop was too long and it kept swinging under the boat. Wayne made it shorter, but it felt like it was cutting a hole in my foot, as I pressed against it to stand. Finally, I put my flipper back on, inserted it into the loop, contracted my thigh muscle, and rose out of the water triumphantly. I dumped myself clumsily into the dinghy, a big satisfied grin on my face.

“I did it,” I shouted.

Wayne just looked on in wonder. What a patient man!

Our next mission was to 1) spear a fish for dinner, or 2) find conch for bait so that we could catch a fish for dinner. We motored over to the rocky edge of Staniel Cay and Wayne slid into the water holding a long yellow spear in his hand. He swam along the edge and I followed paddling the boat to keep up

Fear # 2

Unable to find a suitable prey, Wayne surfaced, removed his snorkel, and said, "Everything’s too small here. Start it up and tow me back towards the boat, but do a zig zag pattern so we cover lots of ground."

I grimaced like a characture of a person, my neck muscles clenched, my lips spread and pressed against my teeth.

He looked at me with a face that said, "For God’s sake, stop acting like a woman." I really didn't want to do it. I’m more comfortable driving Ella, the big boat, then Fido the little dinghy. I was afraid that I’d give it more gas instead of less, turn the wrong way, or in a panic shove the gear into reverse instead of forward, chopping Wayne into shark bait with the prop. This is not an unfounded fear. I’m the one who jumps up and down and squeals when the toaster catches on fire. I’m the one who once shoved our old seventeen-foot boat into forward instead of reverse and cracked the hull into the dock. Of course that was after an early morning of crabbing in the Chesapeake Bay with my best friend and two thermos jugs full off bloody marys, but the memory still haunts me.

I can do this, I said to myself. I took a deep breath and slid the boat into gear. I pulled Wayne along, stopping when he let go of the rope and dove. He came up with handfuls of conch. I threw the smaller ones back in, kept the larger until we had four decent size conch for bait. Our mission was accomplished without the use of a tourniquet and with me smoothly guiding Fido to the swim platform.

Back at the boat, Wayne, with hatchet in hand, went through his tapping and slitting routine, until all animals were removed from their shells, but by this time it was too late to go fishing. So we went out to dinner, this time at the Yacht Club. The perfect ending to a perfect Mother's Day.

From One Extreme to Another

2009-10-28T10:16:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, May 7, 2003

I reached for the sky with outstretched arms, then slowly lowered them to my side in a wide arc. I exhaled yesterday's traumas and moods and inhaled fresh, clean air. It was a new day.

Later, we visited Warderick Wells, the heart of the Exuma Land and Sea Park, 176 square miles of land, reef, and sea. The headquarters, a large, naturally-stained wooden structure was built on the side of a hill with stairs that led up to the first level. A porch wrapped around three sides. Good view in all directions. The building served as gift shop, office, museum, and barracks for visiting students and scientists. Small birds fed on sugar water on a cookie sheet. They didn’t fly away when approached.

Inside, the park warden and his wife chatted amiably with another cruiser. We waited patiently, browsed through books and charts, and examined childish displays of shells and other sea creatures. The author of our favorite cruising guide co-wrote a book about the park with the park warden Their joint effort launched his career as a travel writer. We were hungry for conversation, as we had no one to talk to for days except each other and the cat.

When it was our turn, I smiled and said, "Hi! This is our first time here and we're going to do some hiking this morning, but we were wondering where the good snorkel spots are."

"Where are you anchored?" The warden asked looking out the door to the water.

His wife did not look up from the papers on her desk. We told him we were in the southern anchorage and pointed out our boat. Then, he addressed my question.

"Some people go here," he said, pointing to a faded chart, "and here, and here.”

"Are any close enough to dinghy to?" Wayne asked, doing mental calculations.

"Well that depends on your dingy, but,” he said, sizing up Wayne, "probably not.”

I must have looked disappointed, because he added, "Some folks go out there on the rocks, but only at slack tide.” We looked out at the water breaking on the shallow rocks in the narrow channel.

"I read about the Sea Aquarium in my cruising guides. Is that nearby?"

"Nope," he said.

He shuffled through papers on his desk. I found the Sea Aquarium on the chart. Wayne picked up a book.

"Is this the book you wrote with Steve Pavlides?" he asked.

"Yep."

"So he started out as a volunteer?"

"Yep."

"We'd like to volunteer,” I said, "but we're on a schedule this trip. How about we make a donation instead?"

His wife finally looked up. Only then did she ask our name, the name of the boat, and where we were from, so she could write it in her donation log.

With a "you and me against the world" attitude, we began our hike and didn’t see another person along the way. A number of nature trails wound through the island. We chose the Shaggy Dog Trail to Boo Boo Hill. It began on a white powdery beach that overlooked the northern anchorage. A few boats glistened in the morning sun. They floated in turquoise water that gradually lightened to aqua, until all color faded at our feet. We stopped to examine the massive skeleton of a fifty-two foot sperm whale. It died due to ingestion of plastic. The park rangers had assembled the bones to remind visitors of the tragic consequences of pollution and littering.

From the beach, the walkway narrowed to a hard-packed shady footpath sliced through a thicket of six-foot tall shrubs and trees. It was bordered by sandstones and climbed to slightly higher ground. As we moved inland, the vegetation thinned, and our knees wrenched as we stumbled over what looked like moon rocks—black, jagged, and creviced with holes like swiss cheese. Back down again to a wide, but shallow creek bed. Small, mangrove shoots poked their green heads from the moist sand. We veered from the trail until we found a spot where the creek was narrow enough to cross, then headed up a steep hill on a winding dirt and stone trail. It was cooled and canopied by huge fan-shaped palms.

At the top, our leafy roof opened revealing the big blue Bahama sky. We could see the Exuma Bank to the west with varying shades of blue and green layered across the horizon and to the east, the turbulent Exuma Sound. White caps appeared, then disappeared across deep blue like fire flies against the black canvas of night. Both the bank and sound were dotted with landmasses that couldn’t decide whether they were rocks or island—some green, some brown, all shapes and sizes.

"Wow!" was all I could say at first, as I turned 360 degrees. A wooden sign pointed to "blow holes.”

"Wanna go to the blow holes?” I asked Wayne.

"Sure,” he said and we took off in the direction of the sign.

It took us to the top of a bluff. We looked straight down. Dark teal waves exploded white against huge black and yellow rocks. With all of that shifting energy, I’d expect the cliff-face to be worn smooth, but erosion had made these porous rocks even craggier.

"This doesn't look like a blow hole to me,” Wayne said, as he wandered off.

Behind me, I heard, "whhoof, whhoof.” It sounded just like a whale or dolphin expelling air. Ten feet away, I found an eight-inch hole in the rock that tunneled 90 feet straight down to sea level. I peered inside at the churning water.

"A blow hole!" I shouted running towards Wayne, afraid that it might suddenly gush and throw me into the drink.

Wayne walked calmly over and lingered there, looking in. I’m such a scaredy cat, I thought.

We traced back to the trail, then climbed a little further to the top of Boo Boo Hill where cruisers were encouraged to nail wooden signs designating the name of their boats. There were hundreds of them, but few cruisers used hammers and nails. Some signs were carved in sandstone or painted on conch shells. A number of people came back year after year. Some signs were very artistic, some were made by children.
It was a motley assortment, haphazardly arranged and reminiscent of a shantytown. I couldn't decide if I thought it was nice quirky fun or an unsightly infringement of civilization on otherwise untouched terrain. Probably the latter, but fun to look at.

We left only footprints, but before leaving paused for one last look—the choppy sound to one side, the placid bank to the other. Such extremes. This whole trip has been about extremes, crossing a visible line from indigo to aqua, deep to shallow, sunshine to heavy black clouds in a matter of moments. From opulent homes on private cays to the poverty of small villages, from plush palms or soft white sand to moon rocks. And all the while, we ride an emotional wave of self-doubt and anxiety, then wonder and elation.

Will this adventure ever feel safe, like curling up with my favorite afghan or sliding into an old pair of shoes? I’m not accustomed to these emotional extremes. They make me watchful and wary; I’m afraid to relax too much, and I wonder if it’s all worth it. But, I don't share these feelings with Wayne. Instead, I keep my smiling mask on. I’m afraid if I become discouraged, he’ll want to turn back, and I’ll never find out what lies ahead.

When we finally made our way back down to the creek bed, the tide had risen and covered our prints. We trudged up and down trying to find a way across. I followed Wayne trying not to crush a single mangrove shoot, as if I were a benevolent giant, and they were little green people. My tennis shoes sank, until they were completely soaked and coated with wet sand.

Later in the day when the long shadows of rocks cooled Termite Beach, we took Chris to shore. Although, it was a short dinghy ride, he stood on his hind legs, his front legs on the pontoon and yowled like someone was standing on his tail. As soon as we slid onto the beach, he leapt to dry ground. Digging holes in the soft sand to find a cool spot, he rolled, covering his gray and white fur with grains of sand, then pranced, his tail high in the air, then prowled slinking about the beach and nearby greenery looking for anything that might move and make a suitable plaything.
I spotted the large nest for which the beach was named. It was at least five foot high, and looked like a black sandcastle built by driveling wet sand from a pail. Before Chris found the termite nest, we decided to dinghy around the rocks to the next beach.

I pushed the boat from shore while Wayne retrieved Chris and dropped him into the dinghy. Chris perched himself on the round pontoon, studying the water. I saw his back legs flex, and before I was finished shouting "Chris! Don't do it!" he launched into the air, legs spread in all directions like a bat, and belly-flopped into the water.

"Oh, My God!" I cried out, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. His little head bobbed, as he swam the twenty feet to shore, where he scrambled onto the rocks.

Wayne quickly motored back, climbed up the sharp rocks on hands and knees and lifted the dripping and now sandy cat to his chest. As we headed for Rendezvous Beach, Chris hid under my seat and nonchalantly licked salt and sand from his matted gray fur, as if nothing unusual had happened.

At Rendezvous Beach, Wayne climbed a path, too steep for me, to find the ruins of the Douglas Plantation, once the island home of British Loyalists who fled the United States and settled here during the Revolutionary War. Chris and I strolled the beach. I combed for shells and pebbles. He chased lizards that hid under large flat rocks, poked his small black nose in holes and cracks, and disturbed a long brown snake. The snake slithered away. The cat watched tentatively, as I discouraged him from further investigation.

If we were not on a schedule to meet family and friends in Provo, we might stay in this park for days, exploring its many trails and reefs. But since there is no way to predict weather delays or mechanical failures, we must move on when we can. For this very reason, many cruisers are much less accommodating. When family and friends want to join them, they tell them where they are (at the time of the visit) and the visitors must figure out how to get there, no matter where it is. This seems a little drastic and probably cost-prohibitive for my family. Although, I am really looking forward to seeing all of them, I am sorry to have to leave Warderick Wells so soon.

Thursday, May 8, 2003

Finally, a day where absolutely nothing went wrong! We ticked off each item on our checklist and departed for Bell Island, a short run of ten miles. The seas were supposed to be four to six, but were closer to three.

We can tell the height of the waves by our catometer:
2’ Chris moves about the boat freely, up and down the ladder as he wishes
2 ½’ Chris lays on Wayne’s foot, that is until Wayne’s toes get numb and he kicks him off.
3’ Chris sleeps under the dashboard, wedged between the big plastic tubs stored there.
4’ He stays downstairs in the salon, sleeping under the coffee table
5’ Chris sleeps against the wall under the dining table.
6’ Chris hides in the small area between the stateroom and the closet door, his eye wide like pies. This is the lowest place he can get on the boat.
Over 6’ Unknown. Thank God!

Today’s ride was effortless, and we handled the boat like old salts, secured on the lee side of Bell Island by noon. Bell Island is private with only two huge flat houses, nestled in the trees high atop a cliff. Three other boats shared our anchorage.

After lunch and a nap, we took the dinghy around Bell Island and across a wide bay. We checked out a mooring ball and found a small wrecked plane. What was left of the rusty fuselage, sat just under the water. An outline in the sand defined its wing resting on the bottom. No need to snorkel here, as we could see everything plainly from the surface.

We moved on to a large round rock/island about twenty yards in diameter. Here, we would find the Sea Aquarium. Two mooring buoys were provided so that boaters wouldn’t damage coral when anchoring. As soon as we attached to one, I could see the tell-tale stripes of curious sargent majors swimming to the surface to check us out. Once under water, I forgot about the wind and current, the water in my mask, and just listened to my own steady breath. I sound like Darth Vader, I thought, or Lloyd Bridges?

Like many of the Exuma Cays, this one is rimmed by a rock ledge. However, instead of protruding a foot or two over the water, this ledge protrudes at least five feet. The water was twelve-foot deep right up to and under the ledge. It created a fertile and protected environment for a garden of coral.

Coral heads were scattered on the sea floor. They thickened to one large collage of plants and animals that grew up the wall under the ledge. You couldn’t find more colors in the artist’s box of Crayolas.

I couldn’t identify many of the corals, sponges, and sea anemones that flourished there, and I find trying to write these words frustrating. I’m motivated to open up my field guides and do some studying. The most I can say is that there were magenta tubular vines ribboned around white, yellow, and amber clumps of textured coral. Large purple sea fans undulated in the current. Deeper purple plants or animals, their leaves or fingers like delicate fringes swayed against a backdrop of clustered tubes, bright orange and blue. Green clumps looked like moss on a forest floor.

Away from the ledge, Wayne pointed out a huge spiny lobster crawling slowly across the sand, his antenna outstretched, legs moving with purpose. Well, he looked huge to me, but then again, a beer can looks to be the size of a box of oatmeal when viewed underwater.

Schools of gray snapper stacked themselves on six-foot tall towers of coral jockeying to stay in position like fish on a stringer. Yellow tail swam in and out of our peripheral vision.

If you could lick your chops while holding a snorkel in your mouth, that’s what Wayne would’ve been doing. I knew he would love to spear a few for dinner, but all sea creatures are protected here. If they weren’t, The Sea Aquarium would be devoid of all but reef fish like so much of the Bahamas. So we didn’t complain. We didn’t violate the rules, even though there was no one around to catch us.

Small neon fish—black and blue, fluorescent yellow and orange hovered in front of our masks. They seemed to be as curious about us, as we were about them. A larger damselfish was a dull brown, but he looked as if someone had dipped his tail in a can of bright yellow paint, then splattered his back with metallic blue. He was disinterested in me, and continued to munch on coral. Hidden down among the rocks, I saw the earthy tones and big lips of a grouper. We made eye contact for a split second, then he hastily retreated into his cave.

This wasn’t the largest reef I’ve ever seen, nor the biggest variety of fish, but it was definitely the healthiest reef I’ve had the privilege of visiting. The use of the word “privilege” is not an over-statement. I wish I could share this scene with everyone I care about. I pity those whose only exposure to the world under the water’s surface is Public TV. There is no garden lovelier, no painting more vibrant, no place on earth more enticing than a reef.

A Post With No Name

2009-10-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

Note from 2009: I’m not usually a complainer. If there’s a situation I don’t like, I change it. If I can’t change it, I make the best of it. However, sometimes you just have to vent. Venting is healthy, as long as you don’t make it a life style, but I’d rather not vent to Wayne. When I do, he not only takes on my emotion—anger, disappointment, depression—he takes it on tenfold. I guess it’s an i-got-your-back guy kind of thing. It’s sweet, but it doesn’t help. I always end up trying to calm him down.

I’m talking about this because the day we motored to Warderick Wells turned out to be one of the low points of our cruise and I do some healthy venting in the following post. Last night I sat on my deck with a glass of wine trying to think of a name for this post. How about: Down in the Warderick Well? Warderick Wails, Bruised Cruisers, Exema in Exuma? (Refill wine glass.) Bahama Drama, Paradise Lost, Tropical Depression? This Ain’t No Fun No More? Pity Party in Paradise? This is Not Your Mother’s Cruise, Sinking in Self-pity? How about: Is Cruising Better Than a Sharp Stick in the Eye? I just couldn’t decide. Leave a comment and let me know which name you like best. Or maybe you have a better suggestion.

Here’s the story:

Tuesday, May 6, 2003

Late this morning, we left for Warderick Wells. The Exuma chain is made up of hundreds of islands strung together in a southeasterly direction for nearly a hundred miles. On the east side of the island chain is the Exuma Sound. This wide expanse of water is thousands of feet deep. And because there is no shallow water and no landmasses to break the wind and surf, its seas can be quite rough. On the west side is the shallow and generally much calmer Exuma Bank. Our choice for today. Within four miles of the islands, the bank is ridden with rocks and sand bores. Sand bores make me think of some crawly creature tunneling under my skin, but they are really just sandbars. There are many of them reaching out from the islands like long fingers. To travel down the island chain, we must motor out past the sandbores, move south until we are even with the cay we want to visit, then work our way to our destination following the underwater hollow between the appropriate sand bores. Warderick Wells is only ten miles away as the crow flies, but we have to travel over twenty miles to get there.

The wind was blowing twenty knots from the southeast, and on the first leg of the trip, we were hit broadside by five-foot seas, pushing the boat from side to side like a demented nanny rocking a cradle. This is calm? I’d hate to be on the rough side. Wayne stood at the helm and squeezed his eyes into the wind, his gray hair flying straight back. His legs were spread wide apart and his triceps contracted as he clenched the wheel fighting to stay on course. He angled our heading in an effort to slide up one side and down the other of each wave. A few degrees to the left or right, and the big swells would collide with the bow and send water sloshing over the rails. I tried to move about the boat, but each time I took a step, the floor would drop un-expectantly from under my foot or rise to meet it, and I would stumble one way or the other. So, I sat, moving my torso like I was riding a mechanical bull. A half an hour into the trip, we realized we’d left the portholes and front hatch open. Our bed, pillows, walls, and books were sprayed with salty water.

We continued out past the sand bores, then turned directly into the wind and water. No more to and fro, just up and down, up and down, up and down for nine miles. We had not expected this much water in the bank, and neither of us had remembered to tie our secretary to the wall. (That’s a wooden upright desk, not an employee.) Wayne worked his way down the ladder to find that the secretary had fallen over and crashed into our very-expensive-because-it-was-made-for-a-boat table. Papers and books were strewn about the salon. A splintered three by three chunk of the coffee table was hanging precariously by a sliver of wood.

We reached the Warderick Wells waypoint that I’d copied from the cruising guide. Up until now, when the guide indicated a waypoint, we’d travel to that point, then sound our way to the anchorage, watching the water, watching the little boat move across the chart on the PC, and reading the directions in the guide like, “You’ll see two rocks, one flat, the other shaped like an upside-down salad bowl. Put the salad bowl to your port side and head toward the golf ball-shaped water tower watching the sandbar on your starboard side.”

Rock Shaped Like a Salad Bowl

Routinely, I read the directions to Wayne a mile or so before we got there, then read them again in real time. But today, the directions seemed to make no sense, and the chart on the laptop was difficult to read. In order to see where we were in relation to the island and its sand bores, we had to zoom out so far, we couldn’t see enough detail to navigate.

“Which way should I go?” Wayne growled.

My heart raced. “Uh, uh, uh,” was all I managed to mutter as I frantically paged through guides, then clicked buttons on the computer screen, then looked out at the water, hoping that something I saw would suddenly make sense.

“God damn it!” Wayne snarled. “Get the paper charts!”

I was at near panic as I searched for the right place in the big awkward chart book. The pages flapped in the wind like the wings of a sea bird. I tried to hold the page down with one hand and swipe the hair that was blowing in my face with the other. My reading glasses teetered on the end of my nose. The paper charts were no help. I tried to hold back tears, but they pressed against my solar plexus just waiting to erupt.

I don’t know at what moment I finally gained control of my emotions or what prompted the pieces to suddenly fall into place. I finally realized that the waypoint marked the spot where the cruiser decides whether to go to the northern or the southern anchorage, not the spot where we would work our way toward shore. We’d headed between the first and second sand bores when we should have headed between the second and third. A u-turn took us back out past the obstructions. We motored further south, then back in between the next two.

Tiny dot on left is the Ella McQuaid

We anchored the boat in a pristine harbor, but I couldn’t enjoy it because of Wayne’s long face. It had taken us five hours to go twenty miles. Wayne was now mad at himself for not being “on the ball.” I, always the keeper of the peace and solver of problems, decided we should make a checklist to ensure that everything was in order prior to embarkation. The list had more line entries than the page of the yellow legal pad, and we agreed that the captain should always verify the navigator’s route.

“There,” I said in a lively, self-satisfied voice, “All we have to do is go down this checklist each time we are leaving and no more disasters.”

Wayne grunted.

I said, “What’s wrong, honey?”

I thought, Jesus Christ! Some people are never happy.

Wayne finally spoke up. “Everywhere I look I see something dirty, wet, or broken. And I never seem to get ahead. And, I am sick of fixing the same things over and over again.” He waved his arm around the boat then dropped it to his side in pure frustration.

“OK,” I sighed. “We’ll make another list.”

And so, I wrote down everything that needed to be repaired or cleaned, as if putting each word to paper would somehow lift the burden of the task from Wayne’s slumping shoulders. And it did, at least temporarily.

While reading about my navigational mishap and Wayne’s snarling and whining, some of you might think that Wayne acted like a jackass or that I was foolish not be furious with him for his bad behavior, for turning me into a sniveling, incompetent first mate. Alright. I was incompetent because I screwed up the waypoint, not because he growled at me. Oh, Alright. Wayne didn’t make me cry. I did that to myself. I let him get to me. Yes, he talked to me in an unpleasant voice. Big Whoop! We both could benefit from keeping our emotions at bay and our heads on. But I can’t over-emphasize the gravity of the captain’s responsibilities. Wayne’s charge is to first keep the woman he loves—that’s me—out of harm’s way. Second, he must protect the boat. When Wayne says he’d never forgive himself if anything happened to me, I believe him. I know him well enough to affirm that the guilt would follow him to his grave. As for the boat—it is our house, after all—if anything happens to it, we will basically have to rebuild our lives from scratch. He takes his role as captain very seriously and is under tremendous pressure. When he seems to be angry with me, he is sometimes frightened, but more often than not angry with himself. Later, he apologizes, and I accept.

Have you figured out by now that cruising is not a vacation? Here are some other things you probably don’t think about when you think about our adventure, some of which I have already hinted at.

Venting commences…

Trash

People who live on islands don’t have room for their own trash, let alone that being shipped in by the dinghy load. The infrastructure for disposal is inadequate or non-existent. If they accept trash, cruisers often have to pay anywhere from 5 to 50 dollars. Furthermore, trash needs to be separated into food that can be thrown in the ocean when offshore, bottles and cans, and plastic and paper. We had three large bags of un-separated trash. Yesterday, when Wayne took them out of the dinghy, the bottom of the bags tore, and I found him on his knees on the swim platform sorting through two-week-old cans, slimy rotten food, soggy paper, and cigarette butts.

Water

We misjudged when we purchased our water maker. It only makes one and a half gallons an hour, It uses so much electricity that we can only run it when the engines or generator are running. As reported earlier, we can’t always produce water when we are moving, and as for running the noisy generator, until Wayne gets some new spark plugs, plug maintenance is required every time we want to start it.
In the states, you can fill your water tank whenever you purchase fuel, but in the Bahamas you might pay 50 cents a gallon or more for water, and you have no control over the quality. We are down to twenty gallons of water and can’t seem to get caught up. Reluctantly, I’m doing all of my dishes in saltwater, sitting on the swim platform. My flatware is getting rusty and the whole dinner ordeal is now at least forty minutes longer. We shave with saltwater on the swim platform, too. We can’t take a shower every day, and when we do, we can’t waste water waiting for it to get hot before stepping under the spray. I just take a deep breath, turn it on, get wet, turn it off, soap up, turn it on and rinse as quickly as possible--no leisurely muscle-relaxing pounding of hot water on the back. Wayne is washing his hair in salt water, but this is one of the places where Princess Leah is drawing the line.

Electricity

The batteries must be monitored throughout the day— how many amps we are using, how many volts remain. At night, we use the minimum of lights, often reading by flashlight or simply going to sleep with the sun. We can’t turn on the stereo whenever we want. Even flushing the toilet or running water spends our valuable storage of energy. Our stove is 110 volt, so we must run the generator (if it starts) to cook, but I can’t use the oven and burners at the same time. The other option is the grill, great for fresh fish or shiskabobs, but it doesn’t work for pasta, one of our staples, as the water never boils. Even if we’re not watching it. On the stove, it takes nearly an hour. A meal that would take twenty minutes to prepare at home can easily take an hour and a half on the boat.

Laundry and Clothes

We have only done one load of laundry since we left Merritt Island in early April. Seasoned cruisers sometimes wash clothes by hand in a series of buckets, then hang them to dry, but lots of water is required. Even if salt water is used to wash, clothes must be rinsed of soap and salt in fresh water. I am actually glad we don’t have enough water for this. I would rather wear pants that stand by themselves in the corner than resort to sloshing about in five-gallon paint buckets. Of course, some boats have ample water and washers and dryers, but not the average cruiser. In the states, the majority of marinas and most towns have laundry facilities--not in the Bahamas, so we just have to wait to wash.

We can’t change the sheets or get a new fluffy towel as often as we’d like. And anything that gets wet never seems to dry. Wayne has two piles of laundry by his side of the bed—“dirty dirty” and “clean dirty” saved for trips to town. We have stopped wearing underwear and pull on the same pair of grimy shorts for days. Fortunately, I have lots of shorts in three sizes, size tens from when I was last at fighting weight, size twelves (the transitional ones) and wide loads. For the seven months prior to our departure I worked in Merritt Island. Here I sat at a desk for ten to twelve hours a day, then, rewarded myself by slumping in front of the TV watching reality shows for hours each night. The result was twenty-five pounds of pure fat, most of which landed somewhere below the waist. I have worn all of my wide loads, and now am working on the transitional pairs. Luckily, cruising is great for the waistline, so perhaps by the time all of the size twelves are dirty, I’ll be able to fit into the tens.

Even if our clothes are clean, they’re always wrinkled. I wore shoes once last week for the first time in six days. I haven’t worn makeup or jewelry in weeks and my hair, normally brown is straw blonde and brassy orange with gray mixed in. I look like the bride of Frankenstein, when I don’t have hat head.

Cat Box

In Merritt Island we began the process of training Chris to “do his business” in the toilet. We are stuck at the point in training where we keep a plastic mixing bowl under the seat with just a few ounces of litter in it. Usually Chris announces to me when he needs to “go,” and I clean the bowl in the ocean immediately thereafter. If I neglect to do so, he won’t use it. Instead he does the “poop dance.” He dashes about the boat and scratches the green chair, which he absolutely knows he shouldn’t do. Once I figure out what’s wrong, he monitors my every move as I clean the bowl, then he immediately dirties it. Who would‘ve thought that I’d ever be so in tune to a cat’s toilet schedule? Often, he decides he needs to “go” when I am using the head, so there’s a line for the bathroom. He meows and brushes his fuzzy whiskers across my bare hips. Only once, so far, have I sat on the john and peed in his litter.

Food

Since many islands are uninhabited or private, markets are far and few between. When you do find one, the selection is extremely limited, and the food is expensive. Some cruisers have the room and an adequate electrical system to handle a freezer, well-stocked with vacuum packaged bags of meat, fish, and veggies purchased in the states. Lots of sailors just have iceboxes, which work well when block ice is available, but are ineffective in the islands where it’s difficult to find even cubed ice. We fall in the middle of the spectrum. Our small twelve-volt refrigerator will keep produce and dairy products fresh for a week or two. It has a tiny freezer big enough for two packages of fish (Wayne doesn’t eat meat). Often, we have to make due with non-perishables. This gets old, but our eating habits have become healthier. We savor fresh fruit and vegetables when we have them. We eat only when hungry and only to nourish. Can you imagine binge eating on canned spinach and rice?

Our biggest luxury appliance is the icemaker. Wayne installed it for a number of reasons. First, because I love ice cubes. Second, the frig is so small, we thought we’d keep cold drinks in a cooler. Lastly, Wayne thought he’d be catching so many fish in the islands that he’d need to store the excess on ice. This has not been a concern. It’s a good thing, too, because to make ice, you need water, and as mentioned before, our water is closely rationed.

Cruising turns out to be a lot like long-term camping with extra work thrown in, but just writing this made me feel better about it. Although it can be inconvenient, it's never boring. Each day offers new adventures, tests of fortitude, and something we’ve never seen before.

No Hamburgers in Paradise

2009-10-14T07:23:00.000-07:00

Monday, May 5, 2003

Today’s itinerary was to head thirty-two miles to Warderick with a stop for lunch along the way at MacDuff’s on Norman’s Cay. MacDuff’s hamburgers come highly recommended, according to our cruising guide. Furthermore, we could get rid of our trash on Norman’s Cay for a dollar donation. This plan attested to a growing confidence in our boat handling. In the past, we’d never consider voluntarily anchoring or passing through rocks and coral just for lunch and garbage disposal.

After purchasing $694.00 worth of gas at $3.45 per gallon (note from 2009- this was when gas was still well under $2 a gallon), we motored the boat west to the deeper water of the Exuma Bank, a string of islands for as far as we could see on our left, and that same distinct line of deep blue water on our right. Norman’s was only nine miles away, but we were delayed en route by sea gulls “working the water.” They were in pursuit of a school of small bait fish and scraps of larger fish being devoured by even larger fish—our interest in the matter. We trolled in circles close to the squawking birds with a large green plastic lure and a small rubbery fish attached to our lines. The food chain seemed to stop here, as the only animal interested in our lures was Chris the Cat. When we finally gave up, reeled in the line, and wrapped the leader and lure around the reel, Chris made such a racket that Wayne removed the hook and gave him the lure. He played with it until he fell asleep, his chin resting on the plastic streamers.

Back on track to Norman’s Cay, we passed a tiny island, nothing more than a few small palms sprouting from a mound of sand. It looked like the island you see in cartoons with a skinny guy in tattered trousers and long beard propped against a palm tree. Finding our way to the anchorage, we dropped the hook between an abandoned dock and a wrecked airplane, its tail in the air, its wings at water level. No other boats in sight.

Norman’s Cay is noteworthy, because once the whole south end of the island was owned and inhabited by a Colombian drug runner named Ledar. He built a large dock, a small village for his cronies, a radio tower and lookout, an airstrip, and a wall separating the northern end of the island from the southern. The carcass of the wrecked plane in the anchorage is a remnant of these days. Supposedly a number of cruisers were murdered by Ledar and his gang for straying too close to his fortress before the Bahamian government ran him off or possibly killed him. Glad we missed him. It’s unclear how he actually met his demise. Now, the only visitors to the south end of the island are the occasional cruiser like us or tourists who venture over from a small resort on the other side of the wall.

We changed our plan and decided to stay for the night, and while I was clearing the flying bridge of the day’s implements, Wayne started up the dinghy. It was early afternoon and I hadn’t eaten. I was holding out for that big, juicy hamburger. We were busily gathering the necessities for the trip ashore when the outboard stalled. Wayne tried repeatedly to start it. The sun was hot. I stood by and fetched tools for the first hour, then munched on crackers, still hopeful. Wayne continued to work diligently, sweat burning his eyes. I took a nap, then worked on the computer.

At 5:00 p.m., the motor finally started, and we headed toward the dilapidated dock, my feet buried under bags of trash. We pulled the boat to shore and tied it to a shrub, then climbed a dune to a dirt path. The first thing we saw was a large hand-painted sign that said, “Dump Closed 7/1/2000”. Oh well, guess we’ll just keep carrying this trash around until we can’t fit into the dinghy with it, I thought.

We walked further up the path, past a ghost town of weather-beaten clapboard houses in various stages of disrepair, until we came to what remained of a paved road, now dusty and crumbling. Here, nailed to a tree, a piece of gray driftwood with faded green paint said “MacDuff’s ¼ mile, bar open 12 to 8, food 12 to 2 and 5 to 8 with reservations.” We had no reservation, but I wasn’t worried. They wouldn’t turn us away, would they? I salivated, thinking of the first meat I would have in a month. Then, I noticed a piece of notebook paper tucked in a plastic cover and tacked below the sign. The ink was bleached by the sun and barely legible. I squinted to make out the words. “Sorry, closed Mondays.”

“What’s today?” Wayne asked, but he knew the answer when he looked at my face.

“Maybe it’s an old sign,” I said optimistically, and we started down the shady lane.

I wondered out loud if the vegetation would continue to grow more lush as we traveled closer to the tropic of cancer and moved from the sub-tropics to the tropics. Here, the trees were taller. There were more palm trees, casaurinas, and others I didn’t recognize. Low growing shrubs, grasses, and wild flowers bordered the macadam, whitened with coral dust. The road snaked before us as far as we could see. Conch-shell lined trails, now overgrown, led back through the underbrush to the former dwellings of the drug runners.

“These guys must have been lovin’ life,” Wayne said.

We finally rounded a bend and spotted the airstrip. One small single-engine plane sat on the tarmac next to a tiny yellow terminal. The runway stretched from one side of the island to the other, bordered by an eight-foot stone wall with an iron gate at midpoint. A sign on the gate indicated that MacDuff’s was closed. Not surprised, we headed back down the road that seemed to be much more than a quarter of a mile, to our starting point, then in the other direction to the southern end of the island.

We passed by the ruins of more buildings, some nothing more than a pile of boards. Metal and concrete structures stood like skeletons, their doors and windows gone. It’s like “The Three Little Pigs,” I thought. We lifted our heads to the sky to see a 96-foot tower planted high on a hill. Old trucks and motorcycles were so rusty; a good thump of the foot might reduce them to a pile of burnt orange dust. Recently placed bags of trash were heaped next to signs that said, “No Dumping Here”. We continued until we came to a clearing—the actual dump. Garbage, bikes, exercise equipment, fax machines, airplanes. Wayne can’t resist a good dump and started rooting around looking for treasures. I stood in the middle of the clearing surrounded by mounds of trash and looked out through the trees at the crystal-clear, multi-hued waters of the Exuma Bank.

Back at the boat, Wayne dropped a line over the side and fed Chris a conch dinner. A large barracuda hovered under our dinghy, coming out periodically to investigate the lure I was casting. A huge black ray glided by and snatched the bait off of Wayne’s hook, and while I heated left-over spaghetti and garlic bread on the grill, laughing gulls swooped and soared above our heads looking for a handout or a bit of food left unattended. Chris meowed and fussed because he wanted the rubber fish at the end of my line, then watched the birds, his mouth moving soundlessly.

Summer's Goodnight Kiss

2009-10-07T07:26:00.001-07:00

Saturday, May 3, 2003

The morning sun crept over the horizon casting a rosy glow across the cloudless sky and glassy water. As we prepared for departure, Sandy and Valt approached in their dinghy. Their freshly scrubbed faces beamed as they stepped aboard with the promised CD, a huge bag of ice, and a box of chocolate chip cookies. We loaded the software and Sandy familiarized us with the charts.

When they were gone, we noticed they’d left a pair of sunglasses on board, so Wayne put the motor and gas can back on the dinghy, took a six pack of Valt’s favorite beer and the glasses, and headed for their boat. He came back with a thermos jug and a jar of yeast for bread making. Guess they just had to have the last “nice.”

On the flying bridge, we figured out how to connect our laptop to the GPS, plotted our course and set out across the rocky bank. It was a perfect day for cruising, the water calm, the sun high and bright, a light breeze. We guided the little blue boat across the PC like a video game, and when I felt insecure I went to the bow and watched. The water was thirty feet deep, and I could see every rock, every blade of grass, starfish, and sea cucumber on the bottom.

Finally, we spotted Highborn Cay on the horizon; its 260 foot Batelco tower glistened in the blue sky. As we neared, the low afternoon sun reflected on the rippling water, making a moving maze of snake-like rainbows on the ocean floor. It looked like opal.

Once anchored, we baited a hook with a piece of what remained our now pungent conch, and dropped it into the water. When Chris knocked the zip lock bag of bait over, I laid on the swim platform and completely submerged my arm in the water. The baggie sank slowly to the bottom just out of my reach.

“Ut oh,” I said.

“Any fisherman should be able to catch his own bait,” Wayne said, and we spent the next hour unsuccessfully, but quite contently, casting at the bag with rod and reel trying to snag it. We’re easily entertained.

Later, we watched the sun fade away over the horizon. It was so quiet we whispered. And then a thin sliver of moon rose as the sky blackened and millions of stars appeared. I picked up my guitar and wrote this song:

We stop the boat not far from shore and drop the anchor down.
It hurries to the ocean floor and buries in the sand.
The sun, it is a big orange ball descending in the west.
It sinks below a ridge of trees, til we are in darkness.

A star appears above our heads, another to the left.
Is that the bear, or dog, or belt? I always do forget.
Oh, I can see the Milky Way, a brush stroke in the sky.
And did you see that shooting star? Its tail went trailing by.

The water is so still tonight, no ripples from the wind,
A mirror of the great big sky, its stars to reflect in.
The moon is climbing slowly now, so white against the starlit sky.
It’s time to close our weary eyes and sleep until sunrise.

I’m glad you are beside me here and forever more,
To see and feel the things I do and smell the salty air,
To know the warmth of summer nights, experience the bliss
Of waiting for the moon to rise. It’s summer’s goodnight kiss.

Yes, it’s summer’s goodnight kiss.

Sunday, May 4, 2003

We began the day by riding from our secluded anchorage to land. Highborn Cay is a private island with only nine residences. Boaters are welcome to visit the marina, the store, and Cheap Charlie’s Snack Bar. We motored around a rocky point to a small beach, the perfect place to drag our dinghy onto the sand, then climbed a dune to walk on soft grass, the first we’d seen since Miami, past flowering bougainvillea, past a row of bird feeders hanging from a line. They were crafted from coconut shells and heavily in use by small, colorful finches and larger ground feeders. A hammock was slung between two palm trees.

Finally, we reached the marina walkway. The small marina was U-shaped, a few boats tied up at slips around the basin. Looked deserted. The water was the palest of aqua like a swimming pool.

“Could you tell us where the store is?” we asked the pleasant red-haired woman who manned Cheap Charlie’s. She ran her hand through the frizzy mass on her head, and directed us to the other side of the marina U.

There, waiting in a golf cart, was a young woman. She smiled broadly.

“Hop on up, it a long way to de store,” she said.

While she drove us up the hill along a bumpy dirt path, her musical voice and easy laughter charmed us.

The store was surprisingly well stocked, but not much bigger than most living rooms. Fruit and vegetables were stored in an 8 X 10 walk-in-refrigerator. I went in and looked around. Romaine, wonderful romaine lettuce!! I grabbed a bag, then tried the big, heavy door, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it open. I banged on it with my fist.

“Way-ane, let me out of here!” I shouted. I wondered if they could hear me. Wayne finally opened the door. He was grinning.

“Your wife, she likes air conditioning,” the girl giggled.

She used an old calculator to total our bill then drove us back down the hill to the marina.

Here are some typical prices:
Bread $5.00
Bag of Tortilla Chips 5.85
Small jar of salsa 6.85
Bag of Romaine 4.85
Bottle of Aspirin with Codeine 5.25
Case of beer 60.00

Good thing we brought ten cases of beer with us.

Back aboard the Ella McQuaid, we exchanged groceries for fish and snorkel gear and headed to the rocks just offshore from the west end of the cay. Finding only tiny fish, we followed a sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky beach to the northern tip of the island where we spotted another beautiful lunette harbor. I imagine that it won’t be long before I run out of ways to describe so many of these enchanting coves with aqua water. Each seems more impressive than the last, but I am certain that if we were traveling south to north (instead of north to south) the same would be true.

We pulled the dinghy to the deserted shore, then walked back. Wayne led the dinghy through the shallow water. I wove in and out of the water behind him. The terrain was less barren than in the Biminis. Right off the beach, there was a rocky rise of five to ten feet, thick with salt-tolerant shrubs and succulents, small palms, and the occasional group of casuarina trees. At one time, Highborn Cay specialized in Aloe farming, and the plants still grow here. We picked up big red starfish and small perfectly formed shells, and investigated caves eroded into the rocks. When perpendicular to where Ella floated and bobbed, we sat in warm, waist-deep water, the afternoon sun hot on our skin.

Later, snorkeling around the boat looking for conch for bait, I hung on the surface and watched Wayne dive the fifteen feet to pick up the easy-to-spot shells. The conch fishermen at Chub had shown Wayne how to remove the animal from the shell. With one quick tap of a rock hammer to create a slit in the shell, followed by a slice of the muscle, the conch should fall right out.

Back on the boat, Wayne surveyed his available assemblage of tools and decided on a small hatchet. Tap Tap Tap… to make the carefully positioned hole in the shell, then a quick slip of the knife. Nothing fell out. Tap Tap Tap… Perhaps the hole should be a little more to the right. Tap Tap Tap… Wayne’s hand was now bleeding from the sharp edge of the shell. Tap Tap Tap… TAP TAP TAP... When there was nothing left of the shell, but a small spiral, he finally cut the muscle.

“I guess I need some practice,” he said, as the slimy conch fell into his bloody hand.

We had bait, but caught no fish. Again.

Note from 2009: I can’t imagine why we were looking for conch for bait, instead of conch to eat, especially with us catching so few fish. I know we both like cracked conch, conch chowder, and conch salad. Our brains must have fried in that Bahamian sun. Or maybe we just didn’t know how to prepare it, but that’s never stopped us before.

Paralyzed in Paradise.

2009-10-01T13:40:00.000-07:00

Note from 2009: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley. I had to google to get Robert Burns’ actual words, and now half of you won’t know what it means, but I like this version. It makes me feel like a pirate or a lady on a sailing ship headed for the new world. These words turned out to be the theme of our visit to Rose Island. Maybe the whole cruise. Hey! Maybe my whole life! Maybe yours, too, for that matter. I’m not complaining; I’m pretty good at rolling with the punches, but Rose Island turned out to be a test of our spirits.

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

We decided to stay at Rose Island for a day to lick our wounds. The morning started out sunny along with our dispositions. Then, lines of thunderstorms with twenty to thirty-five knot winds moved across the sky throughout the remainder of the day.

I stayed inside and tried to finish plotting our course for the rest of the trip to the Turks and Caicos, so I wouldn’t have to think about it again. I felt like I’d missed half of our cruise with my nose buried in charts and travel guides. I wanted to get it over with.

Here’s how it worked: We had charts on the laptop where I created waypoints to guide us around shallow water or rocks and on to our destination. The combination of waypoints made up our route. This I’d download to the GPS. Then all we had to do was follow the white line that zigzagged across a black screen. After hours of plotting, I discovered that the charts on the laptop were not accurate. I’d wasted hours of time and I had absolutely no confidence in my route. If my route was off by just a little, it could be like driving your car down the canal that borders the highway.

Wayne and I talked about it and decided to ride twenty miles out of our way to get around Rose Island instead of using the cut between Rose and Nassau. Looking back, I think we were paralyzed with fear. Our first ever attempt to read the water and we demolished our skiff. And the further we got from home, the scarier it was. Not scary, like we’re-gonna-die scary, but scary like we’re-gonna-lose-everything-we-own-and-go-back-home-with-our-tails-between-our-legs-looking-like-a-couple-of-big-chumps scary.

Sometime during the day, we noticed the anchor wasn’t holding. Wayne changed from the claw anchor to a different style, a large danforth, shearing a big flap of skin off the top of his knuckle in the process. After much animated dialogue, we re-anchored. Throughout the day and into the evening, we checked our position on the GPS to see if the new anchor was holding, as there were rocks and islands within sight in every direction.

This is no fun, I thought.

At 9:00 p.m., another squall came through, this time from the east. Anchored north of Rose Island, we were exposed to high winds and a rapid succession of three to four foot waves. The wind whistled and howled, and the boat rocked back and forth, to and fro like a top running out of spin. Another check of the GPS revealed that the new anchor was dragging.

Using two anchors is not an uncommon practice in the Bahamas where currents can be strong and holding can be poor. In the twilight, Wayne got in the dinghy, engaged the engine and started to ride around to the bow of the boat. The plan was for me to drop an anchor down to him. Then, he would motor away from the boat to some mystical position, and drop the anchor from the dinghy. As he motored around, the outboard sputtered and stalled. He paddled back to the boat. Standing in the dinghy, Wayne pulled himself around the side of the boat using his hands. At the bow, I lowered the anchor down to him. Then, he motored (The outboard actually worked this time) to the desired location while I let out line. He dropped the hook and I pulled it taut. The motor sputtered and stalled. Holding on to the anchor rode, he pulled himself hand over hand back to the bow. Then he inched his way around to the stern, arriving there just as the last smudge of light disappeared on the horizon. The mission was ultimately successful and as of today we haven’t moved.

Thursday, May 1, 2003

For all of you who have emailed and said that you are “living vicariously through us,” I have two words—CRUISING SUCKS! Where is that pink clapboard bar with the sand floor, the tight-bodied smiling bartender, his deep voice singing with a Caribbean lilt? Where are the cruisers and locals mingling happily, drinking strong rum drinks called Goombay Smashes and Bahamian Fire Bombs? Probably in Nassau--where we didn’t want to go!

We wanted to be off the beaten path and here we are. We’re out of bread, and I would kill for a hamburger. Last night, Wayne dreamed he was trying to park the boat in a parking lot, and woke up so depressed, a little voice in his head was telling him to turn the boat around and head back to Key West. He thinks he may be getting an ear infection. This happened on our cruise down the Intracoastal Waterway and I had to do all of the diving to cut monofilament and crab pot lines that had wrapped around the prop. If his ear doesn’t get better, I guess I’ll be diving the anchor. In the medicine cabinet, I found some antibiotic drops that expired in 1999 and plopped them unceremoniously into his ear.

Monitoring the weather revealed that we would have two more days of thunderstorms and five to eight foot seas. I’ve almost given up on using the Single Side Band radio to get the weather report. This is how a typical SSB forecast sounds:

“static crackle static Bahamas crackle crackle today west of seven two west north of two two north wind south east one five to two zero knots seas crackle static to eight feet east crackle static…….”

By the time I figure out where we are in regards to the latitude and longitude, they are talking about the next day. Instead, I dialed up the marine weather on the web. This is much more costly, as it requires use of the satellite phone, a dollar fifty a minute, after I use up the one hundred twenty that come with my fifty dollar a month fee. Because I don’t have an external antenna for the phone, I must go outside to use it. Last night, I was sitting on the deck, holding the phone in the air like the statue of liberty, as if holding the phone two feet closer to the ionosphere was going to improve my reception.

Still Thursday, 7:00 p.m.

Twice daily, catamarans full of tourists stop near us. The snorkelers in bulky orange life jackets jump off like lemmings, swim around in circles for thirty minutes, pile back on the boat and motor off, reggae music blaring. I can’t imagine what they are seeing down there. We’ve been fishing for three days, and have not caught one fish!

We need to get to civilization soon to restock. Last night, we had Mexican Lasagna made with refried beans, cheese, green chilies and tortillas instead of noodles. Tonight, we had smoked salmon alfredo over rice with canned spinach and the last of the tomatoes vinaigrette. If we don’t catch a fish soon, we may have to resort to baked beans, as my creative impulses are about to become severely limited by the available ingredients. No wonder cruising books are always filled with god-awful recipes like “Tuna Surprise”—one can of tuna, one can of cream of mushroom soup, one jar of salsa.

The most stimulation we had all day was when on three occasions, birds flew into the boat. This was a first for us, and Chris became highly animated, bolting about the boat, flying from bench to table to dashboard in seconds, knocking down whatever crossed his path, leaping into the air in pursuit of the pretty little things. I was as excited as he—jumping around and laughing one second and oohing and aahing with concern for the bird the next. Wayne just sat there. The birds all escaped unscathed to the chagrin of our feline friend.

For further entertainment, I tried listening to Bahamian radio. One station played what sounded like gospel rap, another reggae rap, and the third gave the local obituaries, in which they recited every name of twenty-four grandchildren and seventeen great-grandchildren—Janelle, Danielle, Valentino, Cleopatra, Chanille……. Boring!!!

I just checked www.marineweather.com, after seeing some blue in the sky. Apparently, the weather has turned around, so we OUT OF HERE tomorrow. Enough Camp Granada, Polyanna here we come! We are off to the Exumas tomorrow morning.

Friday, May 2, 2003

If I were manic, I’d be elated tonight. Instead, I am content and looking ahead with cautious optimism. This morning, contrary to the sunny weather forecast, a huge anvil-shaped thundercloud loomed over us, then exploded with high winds and torrential rain, causing us, to once again postpone our departure from Rose Island. We tangled up on the sofa and read books.

By afternoon, the sun was shining and Wayne and I went on a fixing frenzy. A turn of a screw fixed the outboard (or at least we thought so). The water maker seemed to be working fine; consulting the manual revealed that if it stopped working while underway, the saltwater intake might need to be changed (not something we could do while cruising). We switched two wires, and the autopilot stopped turning us in circles. Cleaning and re-gapping the spark plugs had the generator purring like a kitten.

Lastly, we fixed the Flowscan. I won’t attempt to explain how this baby works, but basically, it monitors the efficiency of the engines. For months, the numbers on the gauges seemed screwy. Today, we found the switch that allowed us to set the number of cylinders. And finally, we turned one of the toggle switches on the dash upside-down so that selecting gallons per hour did not display the miles per gallon and vice versa. Now, the Flowscan works.

We’d been moping around since we arrived here on Tuesday (Now, it’s Friday). But, after fixing everything, we were feeling quite self-satisfied. As we cleaned up our tools and manuals, a rubber dinghy approached our boat. I’m a big believer in creating your own luck, the power of positive thinking, what goes around, comes around, and every other idiom you can think of that means the same thing. If I were religious, I’d say that God sent us two angels in an inflatable chariot.

Sandy and Valt had been cruising the Bahamas since November. They came aboard to share a bottle of wine and a few tepid beers. Sandy was what my Uncle Hil would call an “attractive, well-preserved blonde.” Valt had Ronald Reagan’s hair and Dudley Doright’s chiseled features. They were all smiles and loving life in the Bahamas. What a stark contrast to the couple we met in this same anchorage on the afternoon of our arrival. And to us.

Sandy and Valt told us stories of the places we had not yet visited. While we were sitting around on our boat, not catching any fish and having a pity party, they were taking advantage of the intermittent sunshine to snorkel and catch a big grouper. They were compiling a list of the ten most annoying things about cruising the Bahamas. The first one was “I got sand in my sandals while walking on the beach”. The second was “I lost my place in my book when a fish got on my line.”

We told them of our concerns about reading the water and how we planned on traveling an extra 20 miles to go around Rose Island, avoiding the rocks south of us. They told us about the Explorer charts they had on CD. Unlike ours, they are detailed and very accurate. Loading the software on their PC, then connecting the PC to the GPS, places a representation of their boat right on the computer screen, giving a picture of the boat moving across the chart. What looks like a virtual mine field of plus signs and asterisks on the computer is really not so scary. The centimeter between rocks represents fifty or more feet. They promised to make us a CD of the Explorer charts and bring it to us in the morning.

“Please! Please! Please! Stop raining and blowing and let us leave tomorrow morning,” I mumbled as I sat on the deck later that evening.

“What?” Wayne’s voice came from inside of the cabin.

“Nothing. Just talking to the cat.”

The Sinking of the Susan B (and other boats)

2009-09-23T07:33:00.000-07:00

Sunday, April 27, 2003

We left as scheduled for Gun Cay, an uninhabited island and popular spot for cruisers waiting to cross the Bahama Bank. The ride south was rocky. We stood with our feet three shoulder-lengths apart to keep balance, but fortunately, this leg of the trip was only nine miles. When we turned east into the cut between Gun Cay and North Cat Cay, the great expanse of the Bahama Bank lay before us—flat and aqua for as far as we could see. Compared to the deep blue choppy ocean behind us, entering the quiet cut was like drifting into a dream. We dropped the hook in eight feet of crystal clear water just off of a wedge of white beach. Now, this is what cruising is all about, I thought.

It was still early, so Wayne and I walked along the shore, looking for driftwood, rocks and shells, and other debris that washed up. Our feet sank into soft, wet sand. Jagged gray rocks bordered the beach creating a maze of tidal pools for hermit crabs in colorful shells. Atop the rocks, at slightly higher ground, a few evergreens stood, still fewer palms, mostly low-growing shrubs and grasses painted in subtle desert-like shades of green and brown and red. The only signs of civilization were piles of empty conch shells and the crumbling remains of a pink cinder block cottage perched on the rocks. It overlooked the crescent beach at Honeymoon Harbor. I wondered who’d lived there and when, what their hopes and dreams were, and what happened. How sad.

Later, we fished from the back of the boat with leftover lobster salad for bait. I caught two sand eels, so we decided to have pizza for dinner, instead. While I prepped, Wayne tried to turn on the generator, but the cursed thing wouldn’t start. This means I couldn’t use the stove or oven. Previous attempts to cook pizza on the grill made for a charred bottom and un-melted cheese on top, but today I used layers of heavy aluminum foil, kept the fire low, and VOILA—pizza. Well, some might call it pizza, the crust more like a biscuit. And even though, I picked all the mold out of the cheese, I could still taste it. This, too, is what cruising is all about, I thought good-naturedly, taking the good with the bad.

Tomorrow, we cross the Great Bahama Bank for eighty miles to Chub Cay in the Southern Berry Isles. We plan to leave by 6:30 am, and to follow Ron and another cruiser again. As we average eight to nine knots, the trip could take ten hours. This leg would be one of the longest of our entire route. I am worried about arriving at a strange place late in the day when the sun is low on the horizon, causing poor visibility, and when we are weary from sun and sea, but Chub Cay is the closest landfall.

Monday, April 28, 2003

We pulled up anchor and pulled in behind the others. Ron, the captain of the lead boat, has been cruising Bahamian waters for over thirty-five years. He set the pace, and our small caravan headed almost due east to Chub Cay. The water was calm and clear, never deeper than fifteen feet, and since we were following the others, we had little concern about running into any trouble spots. Trolling produced one large barracuda. The day was long and I poured over cruising guides and charts, still trying to decide which route to take to the Turks and Caicos where we were due to meet family in early June.

The approach to the Chub Cay anchorage required navigating between Mama Rhoda Rock on the port side and Lower Chub Point on the starboard. Mama Rhoda was large and rose well above sea level, but underwater rocks scattered to its south and east, narrowed the channel significantly. As we neared, I spotted a fifty-foot cruiser, called the Susan B. She had run aground on the rocks.

“Oh my God,” I cried out. “Look!”

“A reminder of how careful we’ve got to be,” Wayne said philosophically.

As soon as we were anchored, Wayne decided to go to the marina store. We’d forgotten to turn on the icemaker and the princess wanted ice.

“Do you wanna go?” Wayne asked.

“No, I think I’ll take a shower. I feel hot and sweaty.” This was true, but the real reason I didn’t go was because I was afraid to leave the boat. What if the anchor didn’t hold? He hadn’t checked it. Would we end up like the Susan B?

After showering, I looked for Wayne. I saw him stop at a Bahamian fishing boat. He was there at least fifteen minutes. Next, he stopped at Ron’s trawler. They’d said something earlier about having dinner together.

Wayne finally returned. As he climbed from the dinghy, he held up two bulging bags of pink and red slimy stuff.

I wrinkled my nose. “What’s that?”

“It’s conch…conch for bait. I asked if I could buy some and they gave me all of this and more. I gave some to Ron.”

“Are we having dinner with him?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said, “his wife has a sick headache.”

Typical, I thought. I like men so much more than women. Men never have sick headaches.

“Oh, and here’s the ice.” Wayne handed me a dripping bag. "Guess how much it cost.”

“Four fifty?”

“Eight dollars,” he announced.

Just then, the Susan B went by, heading toward the marina. Tow Boat US and a number of skiffs were assisting her. The rescuers had placed huge bladders under the damaged hull to keep her afloat, and installed a powerful pump in the bilge. As they towed her past, water gushed over the gunwales. I waved my hand at the divers in their slick black wetsuits. They stood ominously on her deck and nodded.

“That makes me feel sick,” I told Wayne.

“Have a beer,” he said.

We skipped dinner and drank more beer. I caught a big silver Margate that went into the cooler for tomorrow night’s supper. Wayne went to bed early, and I sat up and read, listened to music, and fished. Tomorrow, we would head south on our own, while our travel partners continued north which happens to be where sane people would be headed at the beginning of hurricane season.

The wind shifted, the water got choppy. The boat rocked all night. I tried to sleep on the sofa where I couldn’t hear the water crashing against the hull, but was repeatedly awakened by sound and motion.

Tuesday, April 29, 2003

We towed two dinghies, an eleven-foot inflatable (standard cruiser’s fare), and a fourteen-foot handmade wooden skiff. The skiff had beautiful lines and two glass windows on the floor. Wayne spent months sanding her down, painting her Caribbean blue and purple, and installing brass hardware. We named her Tootsie, in memory of his mom, and I made her a fringed and striped top to keep the sun off our heads. I couldn’t look at it without bursting into song—“Ducks and Chicks and Geese better scurry…” In Key West, we bought a brand new outboard, and although somewhat tipsy, compared to our inflatable, Tootsie was fast and could carry a lot of gear. That was yesterday.

This morning, we left early. We wanted to skip Nassau. Neither Wayne nor I are interested in big cities, tourists traps, crowded anchorages, and international McDonalds, but after studying the cruising guides, I determined that passing through Nassau made more sense for us than going east to Eleuthera. Rather than stay in Nassau Harbor, we decided to anchor just north of the uninhabited Rose Island, one of cays situated to the east of Nassau proper.

In contrast to yesterday, the water we crossed today was indigo blue and over a thousand feet deep. The trip was only about thirty-five miles, and we trolled unsuccessfully the whole way. The seas were relatively calm, and by early afternoon we passed over a distinct dark blue line—the line where the ocean floor, a thousand feet below sea level, begins its rapid rise to the surface. The top of this underwater mountain is Rose Island—a strip of white sand with a few trees at the crest. We planned to anchor in shallow water, just off the island.

This was our first attempt at really reading the water. Wayne was at the helm and I, on the bow, looked for a channel between large black rocks and patch reefs. The water was only twenty feet deep and I could see clearly to the bottom, even though I had already lost both pairs of Polaroid sunglasses purchased for this purpose. My apprehension about reading the water dissipated. The water was flat, the sun was high, we had studied our charts, and I felt confident. Dark blue or green water was deep. Sandy bottoms range from white (don’t go there) through a whole spectrum of blues--the deeper the blue the deeper the water. “Brown, Brown, run aground”—coral or rocks—the darker the brown the shallower the water. Grass on the bottom looks an awful lot like brown to me, and apparently to Wayne, as well.

Once I thought we were out of any potential danger, I shouted, “Looks good to me!” and returned to the bridge to take the wheel. Wayne headed for the bow to drop the anchor. From the bridge, I could clearly see the areas we were trying to avoid. I let the boat drift closer to the beach.

As soon as Wayne climbed to the bottom of the ladder, he shouted, “Stop!” I shoved the shifter into reverse--no brakes on a boat.

Wayne shouted more emphatically, “Stop!” as he hurried towards the bow. I gave her gas to back out of the trouble more quickly. A loud thud seemed to stop all action.

“What was that?” Wayne inquired, wide-eyed.

“The dinghy?” I suggested, through clenched teeth.

I listened for the buzzing of the ignition. That’s what happens when you run over the towrope and wrap it around the prop, stalling the engine. Hearing nothing, other than the customary hum of the motors, I walked to the back of the bridge. Then I saw it—our beautiful Tootsie, upside-down. She was partially submerged under the port side of the boat, a huge hole ripped in her side.

Apparently, Tootsie was still moving forward when Ella made a rapid change of direction backwards. Tootsie was sucked into the Ella’s big prop. Blue and purple splintered planks drifted away in the current. Our new outboard motor was completely submerged in salt water.

Shit, I thought, I killed Tootsie, but I didn’t utter a sound. I was waiting for Wayne’s reaction. Wayne said nothing and calmly went about the task of dropping the anchor while I steered. Better Tootsie than Ella, I tried to tell myself, but my heart was not in it. I felt like a toddler who after running along gleefully, suddenly tripped on a rock and smashed to the ground.

Anchor in place, Wayne pulled the skiff around to the swim platform, tied a rope around the outboard, and hoisted it out of the water and onto the bracket attached to the stern. This is where the outboard should have been when we were towing, but because the water was calm and the trip was short; Wayne had opted to leave the motor on the skiff. Remember Ron, the experienced cruiser we followed to Chub Cay. His last words of advice to Wayne were “Don’t take any chances.” I wondered if those words echoed in Wayne’s head, but I had the tact not to ask.

For the next hour and a half, Wayne flushed the motor with fresh water, filled it with oil, pumped the oil through, and replaced the spark plugs. I made the enormous contribution of fetching clean rags and feeling totally dejected. Finally, Wayne pulled the cord and the little motor came alive. My Hero!

He put the motor on the inflatable. I watched from the deck as Wayne stood in the rubber boat and towed Tootsie to a small, palm-covered island about half a mile north of our anchorage. He left her there, tied to a tree. During the funeral procession, he noticed that the outboard would not run at idle speed. More work was required.

When he came back, Wayne donned mask, snorkel, and fins and dove down the twenty feet to check the anchor, always a good idea in the Bahamas. It was then that he discovered that the brown patches he had mistaken for rocks while anchoring were nothing more than grass, and that our anchor had not grabbed. It was laying on its side on the grassy bottom.

“If we have to re-anchor, I’d like to get closer to shore,” Wayne said as he pulled himself out of the water.

“But how do we get there?” I looked toward Rose Island, feeling gun-shy at this point.

“Let’s ask them,” Wayne said, looking over at a sailboat anchored nearby.

We took the inflatable, and although the couple knew some boats got closer to shore, they didn’t know how to get there.

“Come aboard and have a drink,” the sailor said.

It had been a long day, and he didn’t have to twist our arms. The couple was cohabiting on a 37-foot sailboat with an enormous uncontrollable dog and two longhaired cats. Their story was that the wife was getting ready to fly back to the states to take care of her sick mother. It became obvious rather quickly that the Bickersons were really just sick of each other.

Back on the Ella McQuaid, we reset the anchor, then Wayne cleaned the Margate, while I set up the grill. I cooked the fish, along with yellow rice and canned green beans. It was so good. We hadn’t had a hot meal since our moldy pizza on Sunday, and we needed comfort food.

Not only have we unnecessarily destroyed our skiff, our outboard won’t idle, the generator is still not working—that meant that all hot meals had to be prepared on the grill and showers would be cold. The brand-new water maker stopped making water yesterday. The auto pilot spins the boat in circles, the flying bridge ignition and gauges on the starboard side aren’t working anymore, and I’m out of clean underwear. To add insult to injury, the poignant smell of bird dung is drifting over from that pretty little uninhabited island—smells like a barnyard here in Paradise.

Yet, the sky is black, and full of stars, and I can see Nassau’s lights to the west. They look like those little twinkle lights I love so much. I don’t have to go to an office tomorrow or sit in traffic. The water’s lapping softly on the side of the boat, and I can hear the roar of waves as they crash on the windward side of Rose Island, along with the satisfying sound of Wayne’s gentle snoring. I can’t imagine why he’s so tired!

Bimini Bobidy Boo

2009-09-16T10:08:00.000-07:00

Once we left U.S. waters, things went smoothly. We rolled over evenly spaced four-foot waves. Adjusting our course to compensate for the current as recommended by the cruising guides was unnecessary. I kept saying, “Are we in the Gulf Stream, yet?”

Instead of really enjoying the easy ride, I thought about navigation. I was terrified of the shallow waters, coral heads and reefs of the Bahamas. Unlike U.S. waters, beacons to ward boaters off trouble spots, or to mark a safe channel, or to guide us across open water are rare. We will have to depend on our charts, the descriptions in our cruising guides, our electronics, and most important, our eyes. We will supposedly become experts at reading the depth by peering over the bow at the colors in the water, but what happens if we misjudge before we become experts? And the fact that I plotted the waypoint in the guide book onto our chart and the waypoint ended right smack in the middle of the Bimini (the island, not the harbor) did nothing to dissipate my worries.

About thirteen miles out, we spotted the shores of North and South Bimini on the horizon. As we drew closer, Wayne attached a yellow quarantine flag to the antenna. Arriving in a new country, we must fly this flag, until we clear customs. We motored between a long sandbar and South Bimini’s western shore into the harbor, passing a number of small marinas along the way. The waypoint in the guide was correct. Our charts were not. I wondered how that would affect my ability to navigate.

“There’s the Bimini Big Game Fishing Club,” Wayne said. “Get on the radio and see if we can pull up to the dock while we clear customs.”

I picked up the mike and took a deep breath. When we cruised down the Intracoastal Waterway, I used the radio many times a day to call and ask the bridge tenders to let us through, but I was still not comfortable with the radio or the lingo. I couldn’t make myself say “roger,” “negative,” or “affirmative.” I always felt self-conscious. The protocol is to say the name of the party you’re calling three times, then announce who you are. Try saying Bimini Big Game Fishing Club three times in a row without bumbling the words and feeling like a complete idiot.

“Bimini Big Game Fishing Glub…Bibidy Big Game Fishing Club…” I giggled. “Bigity Bim Game Fishing Club…This is the Ella McQuaid. Do ya copy?”

No response--Damn, I thought, I have to do again.

“Bimini Big Game Fishing Clug…” Bibidy Bobidy Boo, I thought.
After no less than four attempts, they answered and agreed to let us pull up to their dock. To my relief and surprise, our landing was flawless, and I puttered around the boat while Wayne took our papers and the $100 fee to Customs and Immigration. There, he encountered a female custom’s official who was so lazy, disinterested, and finally antagonistic that Wayne swore she must have been transferred there from the Motor Vehicle Administration in Glen Burnie. But in spite of the fact that she did not roll out the red carpet to welcome him to her country, we got our cruising permit and our pet permit for Chris without much hassle and without being boarded.

The next order of business was to anchor in the harbor that lies adjacent to the Pan Am Sea Plane runway. There were a dozen boats anchored there already, and we rode up and down trying to decide where we could fit the boat without getting too close to the others, running aground, or being run over by a sea plane. There were no buoys marking the runway. What if we anchored near the edge and the wind shifted during the night? The boat could swing into the path of a plane. Finally, another boater pointed out a mooring ball to us. Standing in his dinghy, he handed up the line and soon we were safe and secure—right in front of the power plant that is really just a bunch of big noisy Cat generators. But the water was beautiful, and today and possibly tomorrow, we plan to explore the place that inspired Papa Hemingway to write Islands in the Stream.

Hemingway put Bimini on the map, attracting sport fisherman for decades. They did a great job of over-fishing. Then, Colombians kept Bimini on the map by dropping bales of marijuana in the water from small planes. These “square grouper” were picked up by boats that made the fast run to Florida. A local who found a bale could finance a new boat, renovate his house, or even the church or school. Although, the coast guard and the Bahamian government finally cracked down on the drug smuggling, there is still evidence of the business, as young Biminite males in brightly colored swim trunks dart around in very fast and new boats. They certainly could not have made their money on this sleepy little island that is said to have more bars than stores.

In recent weeks, while sitting at night in a quiet anchorage or while motoring along, I’ve been reading The Last Marlin out loud to Wayne. The book is Fred Waitzkin’s memoir, a man who spent many summers in Bimini, first as a child, then with his young wife and children. It’s about his relationship with his father, his passion for fishing, and his love of Bimini and its people.

We were anxious to go ashore for a look at Hemingway’s and Waitzkin’s Bimini. While preparing, a man approached in a fishing boat. His skin was as black as a moonless night, and he was shouting something over the din of his outboard. As he drew closer, and throttled down, we finally realized that he was asking if we wanted to buy some lobsters.

“How much?” Wayne inquired.

It took three attempts to understand his answer. “Thirty get ya a dozen.”

“We can’t eat a dozen. We’ll take a half dozen.”

The man roared away, shouting something.

“Where’s he going?” I said. I watched the boat zoom towards shore. “It seems odd that he came all the way over here to sell us lobsters, when he doesn’t have any with him?”

Five minutes later, he was back with a dozen. Perhaps, he understood us no better than we understood him. We relented and bought all twelve.

Later, I was reading the cruising guide again. “Ut oh!” I said, “That’s why he didn’t have the lobsters with him.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I dragged out the word, “lobster season ended three weeks ago.”

“Are you hungry?” Wayne asked.

Trying to destroy the evidence, we fired up the grill and cooked them all, throwing the shells overboard, then shoved down as many as we could (four or five of them). We hid the rest in a plastic container inside a larger plastic container of leftover spaghetti. Chris the cat had lobster for brunch, too.

Thursday, April 24, 2003

North Bimini is seven miles long, and 700 feet at its widest point. Yesterday, we walked most of it. The streets were littered. An occasional shabby pickup wound its way through pedestrians and golf carts. We ambled past tired-looking pink, blue, and yellow houses, past tiny stores and restaurants with funky and faded hand-painted signs.

“Looks a little different than Miami, doesn’t it?” Wayne said as the toe of his sandal sent a beer can rolling down the dusty road. We wandered into a cemetery and read epitaphs on erratically arranged and lopsided head stones.

As a reward for all of that exercise, we visited some of the drinking establishments, including The Compleat Angler, named after Izaak Walton’s 17th century classic. They claim this was Hemingway’s favorite spot. He must have liked skunked beers. That’s what Wayne got and the bartender was rude when Wayne brought it to his attention. There’s a Hemingway Museum of sorts on the way to the john. The walls were dark wood and covered with pictures, clipped magazine and newspaper articles, and samples of Hemingway’s writings, some in his own hand.

That was yesterday, and today we started up our water maker for the first time, and as I write, I can hear the quiet rhythmic whirring of the reverse osmosis pump, as it turns salt water to drinking water. Later, we’re having lobster pizza for lunch.

Saturday, April 26, 2003

Sometimes, it rains in Paradise. Winds have been high (15 to 25 knots) these last two days, as a front moved in from Florida. Yesterday, we could’ve headed down to our next stop, Gun Cay (pronounced KEY), but we are glad we didn’t, because anchorages there are not recommended for bad weather, and that is just what we had this morning.

We have spent much of the last two days doing odd jobs and lounging around the boat reading. What a pleasure to have the time to read for hours!

Our only excursion off the boat was to take Chris to visit land. I lowered him into his black canvas tote and felt the gentle resistance of his head as I zipped up the top flap. He yowled like a banshee during the short dinghy ride.

“It’s alright, Chris,” Wayne said gently as he patted the cat through the sides of the bag.

“Merrrrooooow,” he cried out.

Once we landed, he quieted as we walked down the narrow dusty road to the south end of the island. Here, we released him next to a small graveyard and a rocky beach. This point of land, ocean on one side, the entrance to the harbor on the other, would be idyllic, except the locals use it as a dump.

I walked the perimeter, head down, eyes scanning the beach, stooping to pick up bits of sea-glass, shells, and small rocks that I might one day polish. Wayne and Chris walked the interior, Chris stopping to poke his gray nose under an old sink or a pile of rotting wood, then hurrying along to catch up with Wayne. They slipped into the cool shade of a small grove of pine trees, long needles crunching under Wayne’s feet, only to find that it was infested with mosquitoes. Within thirty minutes, Chris was overheated and began to pant, and was perfectly content to sprawl near our feet and simply look around.

And so we sat, the three of us, on the edge of the junk yard, breathing in the sights and sounds and smells of the sea, the crash of the surf, the cries of gulls. We smelled the salty air and watched the play of light in the translucent crest of a wave just before it topples.

Note: It is now six years later, and those treasures found on the beach and many more like them remain unpolished. Wayne and I were cleaning out a closet last weekend and found boxes of them, each wrapped in a tissue. We put them in a plastic bag, went to Boca Chica Beach on Sunday morning and returned them to the surf, as we walked along the water’s edge.

Back to 2003…

On the way back to the dinghy, we stopped at Yama Bahama’s Restaurant and Bar for some carryout conch fritters. It was dark inside, except for the afternoon sun slanting through the open door. As our pupils adjusted to the light, we saw four or five metal tables draped with yellowing plastic tablecloths. On the right a long bar stretched to the kitchen entrance. The only other patrons roosted on vinyl-seated bar stools, leaned over their beers, and bantered with the proprietor, Yama Bahama, a soft-spoken man in his seventies. The dingy walls were covered with memorabilia from the days when he was the Bahamian Middleweight Champion.

Some of us dream about being famous. The only thing I ever really wanted to be was a star, but being a jack of all trades, master of none, and maybe just a little lazy about practicing, made my dream unobtainable. Yama Bahama had his fifteen minutes, and now he was standing behind a bar in a dingy restaurant talking the same talk with the same talkers every day. And here we are, living Wayne’s dream. I wonder if it will meet his expectations. I'm along for the ride--to support him. But I could be happy at home, retired at 49, planting a vegetable garden and working out in the gym.

Back at the boat, we made our first cubes in the icemaker. Wayne had installed an inverter that changes DC current (12 volt) into AC (110 volt) specifically for this purpose. This may not sound too exciting, but try living without the little devils for a few weeks. I love my ice cubes, and even though I live on a boat, I sometimes want to be, if not a star, at least a princess.

Just before dusk, when the flying bridge blocked the sun from the deck, we baited our bottom rigs with bits of three-day-old lobster. Releasing the bail, I heard the kerplunk as my sinker hit the surface, and watched as it plummeted out of sight, bait trailing behind. Chris, expectant, sat on the gunwale peering into the water. Wayne felt a strong tug on his line, pulled the rod back to set the hook, then reeled in the first of many small mangrove snappers. Each time we pulled one in, Chris pranced about, his long tail pointed to the sky. He meowed as he did his “I-love-to-fish” dance.

I caught a small, orange squirrelfish. “Perfect for live bait,” Wayne said as he shook it off the hook into a five-gallon bucket of water.

While Wayne rigged a heavier rod, our cartoon cat stood on his hind legs and batted at the fish as it swam in circles around the bucket. And when we weren’t looking, he ate most of our bait, then stalked a flock of loud, aggressive birds hovering just above our heads. They wanted what remained of the lobster.

Tonight, we treated ourselves to dinner at the Red Lion, a restaurant I selected because the cruising guide said it featured local food and that Esquire Magazine recommended the “Shrimp Delight.” The menu described their specialty as large fresh shrimp stuffed with conch, fish, and other secret ingredients, then deep-fried.

“How’s yours? Wayne asked lifting a spoon of fragrant conch chowder to his lips.

“Previously frozen and over-cooked," I said as I poked at the bready stuffy with a bent-pronged fork.

The marinated green beans were canned and served in a tiny plastic cup that held no more than a well-rounded tablespoon--marinated in water, I think. The baby carrots were M.I.A.

“That was a waste of gas money,” Wayne said later, and I agreed.

We walked the docks of the Blue Water Marina, and talked to a cruiser named Ron, who like us, was headed for Gun Cay and on to Chub Cay. He showed us his printed weather reports, accessed on the internet and by weatherfax. Tomorrow would be a perfect day to leave Bimini and embark on our two-day trip to the Berry Isles.

“We’re pulling up around noon,” Ron said. “You can follow us if you want.”

“Baaa!,” we said. Following sounded safe and not so scary.

On a scale of one to ten with ten being an exotic island vacation and one being “The Perfect Storm,” our visit to Bimini has been a six—a scenic junkyard, an anchorage nestled between generators and a landing strip, rude bartenders, lousy food, and no one who seemed particularly happy to have visitors on their island, except maybe the lobster poacher. What a shame!

Miami Heat

2009-09-09T11:36:00.000-07:00

We made it down the intra-coastal waterway with a limited number of tears and without too much trouble. That’s if you don’t count every take-off and landing. Believe me. It’s not like parking a car when you add wind and waves. Oh! And if you don’t count tying up in the canal locks. And the Friday night we ran aground, decided to wait until morning, and woke up at low tide smack dab in the middle of a huge sandbar—the kind that kids and dogs and beer-swilling adults frolic on every weekend. If you don’t mention following a tug all night long because the rain was coming down so hard we couldn’t see. The point is we made it to the Keys, unscathed for the most part in September 2001, spent 10 months getting to know and love Key West, then cruised up Florida’s west coast, across the Okeechobee to Merritt Island where we spent another seven months doing boat projects that were supposed to take six weeks. If we hadn’t stopped, we could still be working on the boat. Finally, we just said, “Ready or not. Here we come!” It was April 2003, shortly before hurricane season, but we were not going to wait another minute.

Monday, April 21, 2003

We’ve been in Miami Beach for days waiting for the right weather window for our first Gulf Stream crossing. We’ve read that you should never cross the stream in a north wind. Its combination with the two to five knot current coming from the south can make for very choppy conditions and high seas. Unfortunately, north winds have been prevalent for over ten days. So, we wait, but we don’t mind. After spending seven months on land in Merritt Island, we need this time to acclimate ourselves once more to life on the boat, and although I am excited about our upcoming adventure, I’m apprehensive.

We moored just north of the Venetian Causeway, tucked in as close to Miami Beach as possible, and it’s pleasant enough here, except for the wakes from the nearby channel—seems like everyone in South Florida likes to go fast.

I expected to hate Miami Beach. I pictured young guys with slicked-back hair and heavy gold chains lurking in every alley or blocking the sidewalks. But here, in South Beach, there’s a small city feeling and reading the local papers while eating omelets in a cafe, I note that art, music, and theatre abound in Miami. On the down side, we have to be adamant about locking everything. When we ride our dinghy up the narrow tree-canopied canal and park it near a run-down grocery store, we must chain the gas tanks to the outboard to the boat and finally to a rusty piece of rebar that is protruding from the canal’s crumbling, concrete borders.

Yesterday was Easter Sunday and we decided to do something special. We started out early to walk to Lincoln Square, a boulevard of sorts, but closed to vehicles. The shady streets were lined with upscale stores, art galleries, and restaurants. The sun was just rising above the brick buildings, casting long shadows on the east side of the promenade. Two Asian women dropped armloads of long-stemmed flowers into five gallon buckets, then scurried off to the back of their van for more. We couldn’t resist the juice bar. Bees buzzed over mounds of fruit and vegetables stacked in pyramids two feet high on a long table. A Cuban man fed bright orange carrots to a whirling blender.

Later, we explored more of the city from our dinghy, riding under bridges so low we had to duck, past dilapidated but charming canal houses. The canal turned left and widened. On our right was a busy street lined with pink high-rise condos; on our left the expansive groomed and gated lawns of lavish homes, their terracotta roofs orange against the blue sky.

“It’s funny,” I said to Wayne, “I guess it’s part of growing up or maybe giving up.”

“What is?”

“Coming to the realization that you’ll never have that.”

“Have what?”

“A house like that.” I pointed at one of the mansions.

“I never wanted a house like that. Why on earth does anyone need all those rooms?”

“I did,” I said, “I thought I’d be rich, someday.” We were quiet for a few moments as we puttered along in our worn rubber dinghy.

“I don’t want that, anymore,” I said, “I’m doing just what I want to do, and we are rich—just in a different way.” At least, I think so, I thought.

Waiting in a strange city for ten days is not like being on vacation. We can’t spend our whole wad going out to eat and drink. Wayne doesn’t like lying on the beach, and we don’t want to go fishing. After all, we’re headed for the Bahamas and the Turks and Caicos and who knows where else and we expect abundant fishing there. Most important, we don’t want to give up our mooring. Someone might come along and take it, and then we’d have to find a new place to anchor. Anchoring is cause for stress and we avoid anchoring and docking unless absolutely necessary. So, we just chill out.

This morning, we were jostling for position on the sofa each propped on pillows at either end. This would’ve worked fine if it wasn’t for all those legs and feet. We finally settled in, one of my legs resting on the back of the sofa, the other curled under Wayne’s bent knees. Wayne read his book and I studied the cruising guides and charts, as I’ve done for days. So many decisions to make—where to go, how to get there, how long to stay. I read and re-read the sections on Customs and Immigration. I wanted to know the rules--to be sure not to break any of them. Wayne, on the other hand, wanted to know the rules, so that he’d be sure to break at least some of them.

“In the Bahamas,” I said to Wayne, “we have to keep our guns under lock and key.”

“Hmmm” was Wayne’s response. He didn’t lift his eyes from his book, probably because I had brought this to his attention on far too many occasions.

In spite of his disinterest, I plowed ahead, “But in the Turks and Caicos, we must turn them over to the authorities until we leave the country.”

He finally looked up. “We do?”

“Yeah,” I answered, “But what if we keep going from the Turks to the Virgin Islands and beyond, how are we supposed to get them back?”

“What if we make it to Venezuela where we might need them?” he said. “Even if we don’t keep going, we might never get them back.” He stared off for a moment. “Wonder if we could ship them to your mom?”

I could just strangle him, I thought. I didn’t want to bring the guns in the first place, but in the months before we left, Wayne read all the horror stories in cruising magazines about pirates. He monitored a web page devoted entirely to reports of bandits with machine guns, boarding boats, robbing the cruisers, and taking no prisoners. Granted, most of these incidents took place in Central America aboard large cargo ships, but Wayne was still concerned. Finally, I surrendered. He was adamant and it was a no win situation for me. What if I convinced him to leave the guns home, and we were attacked and had no defense? It was a battle I decided not to fight.

I shifted my weight to the other cheek and stretched out my bent leg. I imagined dirty-faced banditos with belts full of bullets slung across their chests.

“Badges? Badges? We dun need no steenking badges,” the banditos would say.

“I’ve got some uncut diamonds and gold dubloons you might like in here,” Wayne says. He moves towards a locker like a salesman in a jewelry store. He pulls out a black padded bag and unzips it, then his hand, hidden behind the lid, suddenly emerges holding a black steel Ruger. “Go ahead,” he says, “Make my day!”

Or maybe it would happen like this:

I’m hiding in the stateroom.

“Give me chou money!” they say to Wayne.

Wayne gives them money.

“And chou Rolex”

“My what?”

“Chou Rolex, chou reech Americano.”

“I don’t have a Rolex, you snaggle-toothed dirtbag!”

“Wamp”—That’s the sound of a gun smacking against Wayne’s temple. He’s lying on the deck now, a trickle of blood running down the side of his head. Meanwhile, I, still in the stateroom, am trying to unzip the shotgun bag without making a sound. I move the zipper one tooth at a time. I finally get it open and take out the gun. It’s so big, I have to hold it straight up in the air to turn around in the small space. I take a step forward. The gun barrel hits the doorframe with a thud. The banditos turn in my direction.

I quickly lower the gun and cock it—chi chink. “Halt,” I say, “Drop your weapons and reach for the galaxy!”

“Que?” the leader asks.

“Put your air in your hands,” I command.

The leader cocks his head to the side. He looks puzzled, not terrified.

“I mean put your hands in the air."

They burst into laughter. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Their gold teeth gleam. “Hand up the gun,” the leader says.

“What?”

“Hand up the gun.”

“Hand over,” I correct his English. “Hand over the gun.”

The boat is bouncing and my hands are shaking so badly the gun is swinging back and forth like a band director’s baton. My finger twitches and I pull the trigger. I shoot a hole in the ceiling and the recoil knocks me on my butt.

“I’ll call my mom,” I said.

We spent the whole afternoon trying to get rid of the guns. At the post office, we were informed that it’s illegal to send firearms in the mail. At the UPS store, it was illegal to ship the weapons. The heat radiated from the sidewalk as we trudged along.

“So how do they get from the manufacturer to the gun shop if they can’t be shipped?” I wondered out loud.

“Good point,” Wayne said, “There’s the police station. Let’s ask them.”

We climbed the concrete steps to a window. Two thick-wasted women sat behind bulletproof glass, each with her black hair pulled back in a tight knot.

“Hi,” Wayne said. They narrowed their eyes. “I wonder if you could help us. See, we’ve got these guns…”

The policewomen stood up filling the space behind the window and eyed our loose clothes and my big purse.

“No, not on us—on our boat—it’s moored in the harbor”. He told our story and asked for advice.

“There’s a pawn shop that sells guns around the corner,” one of them told us in a flat voice. “Ask them.”

We marched around the corner. The shop was closed.

“Maybe, we can find another one,” Wayne offered.

I looked around. “There’s a phone over there!” It was halfway down the block. We hurried only to find that the phone book was missing. We started back to our boat. “There’s one,” I said, “and I can see the book!” I quickened my step. A black boxy cover hung from a hinge. I flipped it up and opened it. It was empty. We walked some more.

“I’m hot,” I whined.

“There’s a store on the corner,” Wayne said.

More trudging. When we arrived, there was a phone and a phone book. I found Gun Shops, read through the list, and located one in South Beach.

“Any luck?” Wayne asked. He handed me a bottle of water.

“There’s one about ten blocks away,” I said. “Do you want me to call them?”

“No, better talk to them in person.”

And so we took off in the opposite direction, walking slowly, now. The ten blocks felt like miles.

“We can only ship them to another dealer,” the proprietor told us, not too enthusiastically.

I called my Mom. She called a gun dealer she knew. “They’re closed,” she said, “It’s Easter Monday.”

“Forget it,” I told Wayne, “We’ll take the damn guns with us.”

Tuesday, April 22, 2003

Last night, the wind finally shifted to the southwest and dropped to five knots--the opportunity we’d been waiting for. Today, we left early to cross the Gulf Stream, and after topping off the gas and water, we headed out through the inlet to the open sea. I stood by Wayne’s side, my heart pounding with excitement. Not feeling reluctant at all. I slung my arm over his shoulder and planted a big noisy kiss on his cheek.

“This is it!” he announced, grinning broadly. “We’re doing it!"

We were not two miles out when we noticed a very fast boat gaining on us from behind, blue lights flashing. They must be on some important mission, I thought, but was unpleasantly surprised when they circled in front of us indicating that they wanted us to stop. They approached our boat on the sea side and the choppy waves pushed theirs into ours, making a loud crack. I could hear Wayne thinking, Those ass holes!

Two of the brawny young men jumped onto our deck from the gunwale, something we never do, and they did it in combat boots. Chris, our cat, bolted and hid under the table. The two U.S. Customs agents wore Kevlar vests under their shirts and played good cop, bad cop.

Bad cop: “Do you have any weapons on board?”

Wayne (mumbling): “Yeah.”

Bad cop: “Where are they?”

Me (pointing to a locker with a padlock on it): “In there. You see we have to keep them under lock and…”

Bad cop (interrupting): “Sit on the deck and stay in your seat.”

Good cop: “Where you folks headed?”

Bad cop snooped around in our salon, lifting the top of my attaché case and seeing the laptop inside. Later, Good Cop told us they were looking for night-vision goggles or money that we might be smuggling out of the country.

Bad cop: “Do you have any valuables on board?”

Wayne: “Only everything we own.”

Bad cop looked like he was trying to figure out if Wayne was being a smart-ass.

Good cop: “I hope that cat’s not trained to attack.”

Once they had confirmation by radio that the numbers on our boat were legitimate, they left. We returned to our positions on the bridge, and Wayne eased up the throttles.

“That whole thing felt like harassment to me,” I said indignantly.

“Ass holes!” Wayne said it out loud now. “They should know better than coming up on the sea side."

“For all they knew,” I said, “our engine room could be filled with night-vision goggles. They didn’t look, so why’d they stop us in the first place?”

It’s a curious thing that your house can’t be searched without a warrant and your car can’t be searched without good cause, but your boat can be boarded and searched by any or all of a throng of public officials—Customs, Coast Guard, Immigration, Fisheries, Natural Resources and Marine Police from every municipality. When we moved onto this boat, we apparently gave up some of our civil rights.

In the Beginning...

2009-09-07T12:40:00.000-07:00

When I was cruising the Bahamas and Turks and Caicos 6 years ago, I'd never heard of a blog. Instead of blogging, I wrote a journal and then emailed it every few days to friends and family. Eventually, the email list grew. Everyone seemed to enjoy our adventures, or should I say, misadventures. Six years later, people are still asking me for copies of the journal. So here it is. Blog Style.

Prologue or (HOW THE HELL DID I GET INTO THIS?)

We talked about selling everything and moving onto the boat for years. I always said I was game, but part of me didn't believe it would ever really happen. I'd say, "But where will we put the piano?" Then I'd put the whole business out of my mind and settle back into my life like it was a lumpy, but comfortable armchair.

It had always been Wayne's dream--to go where the sun rarely misses a day, the water offers a pallet of blues and greens and pinks, and where the long straight trunks of royal palms shoot from the earth like geysers, fronds splashing green against a big southern sky.

I first heard of his plan in 1986 when we were new lovers and I was the harried mother of a five and seven year old. The idea intrigued me, having always lived in Maryland. In the early seventies, all the "cool kids" went to Ocean City to work for the summer with miles of beach that stretched from Assateague Island to Delaware Bay. Restaurants, bars, arcades, and clapboard summer cottages turned to musty rooming houses crowded along forty blocks of boardwalk. The "cool kids" worked their shifts, then hung on 9th Street, jeans slung low on hips, army jackets on brisk evenings, small baggies and corncob pipes tucked in their knapsacks. To me a summer job there represented freedom and adventure. I went to music camp in New Jersey, instead.

My only cross country trip was a "drive by"--grassy foot hills, smelly rivers, then fields of yellow grain, pine-covered mountains. We skipped the Grand Canyon--my ex had already seen it. Then on to orange craggy mesas with Dr. Seuss cacti--all these things flying by the car window like the filmed backdrop in an old movie.

Yes, it was Wayne's dream, but I thought, Maybe some day I will run away with Wayne, even if it is on a boat.

Our life went on. We moved from ball practices and games to BMX races, high school concerts, and color guard spectacles. We survived first dances, first loves, lost loves, school suspensions, and honor rolls. We started a home-based business recycling toner cartridges. A sometimes motley assortment of employees passed in and out of our lives slopping coffee on my kitchen floor. A big chunk of my forties disappeared along with Wayne's fifties.

Then one spring evening I came home to find Wayne with his feet propped up on his desk. It looked like any other day.

"I called Rich today," he said.

"Why?" I asked, kicking off my shoes. Rich was one of our friendly competitors.

"I was downstairs working in the shop, and I thought why am I doing this? So I called him and asked him if he wanted to buy our business."

BIG GULP! That was me.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"He said, 'Yes.'"

Remember the scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where they jump off the cliff. What was it they yelled? "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH S--T!" That's exactly how I felt.

Within a month, we were moving boxes, supplies, and employees to our competitor's shop. All summer I gardened and landscaped to prepare for the sale of the house, while Wayne prepped the boat. For years I'd been too busy to garden, but now I realized this might be the last time I'd have the chance. And the musky smell of the dirt took me back twenty years when my mom and I shared a big garden. Aaron would sleep on a blanket in the shade while Grace spooned dirt into plastic cups. Digging again made me feel grounded--no pun intended--as if I were planting my feet along with those perennials, but soon I would be dangling my feet in an ever-changing sea or drifting over it in a boat.

In the evenings, Wayne and I laboriously sifted through our treasures to determine what we could give away, stash, lend, or trash. Every thing I touched evoked a memory. Pictures. Here's me in an Easter bonnet, a cap and gown, a wide-brimmed wedding hat, on a hospital bed with a baby in my arms, another baby. What would my new life look like? A cap on my head and a grouper in my hands? A straw hat and a pina colada? This made me laugh and I allowed myself the luxury of drifting in and out of each memory. Wayne did the same thing with rusty hand tools that were once his grandfather's and tee shirts commemorating every footrace he ever ran and every bar he wanted to remember since the 1960s.

But, unloading the "baggage" was actually liberating. I felt lighter, like the feeling you get when you step out the door after your last final exam or finally get that envelope in the mailbox before midnight on April 15th.

By fall, there was nothing left, except the bare essentials, and I painted the entire house, except for one spot behind the door in the laundry room. The spot where we measured the kids on their birthdays--Grace's marks only a quarter inch a part. Aaron's starting below hers and moving up the wall and inch or two, sometimes three at a time, until they passed hers, mine, and Wayne's. Another memory. I could see them--heels against the baseboard, chests out, heads held high. I could hear the scratch of the pencil as it made the mark. Tears. A part of my life was over, but staying in the house would not change that. My kids were adults and had their own busy lives. Did I want to stick around and be an empty-nester, looking forward to Sunday's when they might stop by for supper? Did I want to stay until Wayne's and my pencil marks started to work their way down the wall? Did I?

The house was ready for sale, but we had no takers. I joined Wayne at the marina every day to work on the boat. We scraped and painted and wired and caulked. We named the boat "The Ella McQuaid" after Wayne's grandma. No sailboat for us. The Ella McQuaid was a 1987 forty-one foot Symbol, nearly fifteen feet wide, a cross between a sportfish and a cruiser with a large desk instead of an aft cabin. The salon was big enough for a full size sofa, a reclining chair, a coffee table, and a secretary. No piano. She had two staterooms, a dining area that seated four, a good-sized galley, and a head with a shower. The boat was perfect for living aboard and cruising, except for her gasoline engines--two big 454s, instead of economical and long-lasting diesels. We considered replacing them, but decided that the $30,000 plus required for the purchase and installation of new engines would buy more gas than we would ever need.

Finally, we sold the house, and by July we were ready to leave. Everything we thought we needed or just couldn't part with was hidden in Ella McQuaid's nooks and crannies. Were we a forty one foot sea turtle taking our home with us where we went? Were we two homeless people pushing a forty-one foot shopping cart?

Family and friends visited to say good-bye in the weeks prior to our departure, but on the humid July morning we left, our son Aaron was there to shove us off. I stood on the deck crying and waving while he stood on the dock doing the same. His tee shirt was bright red and it disappeared as we motored out of the creek.

When we came to the first gas station, not ten minutes later, I was still sniveling. Wayne approached the dock and the attendant threw me a line. I moved to a cleat on the bow, knelt down, and started wrapping the line around the cleat.

"Hurry up!" Wayne shouted, "The wind's blowing the stern around."

I sniveled and wrapped.

"Stop moving like an old woman," he shouted.

I choked back the tears, but they welled up in my eyes until I couldn't see. What had I gotten myself into?