Day Trippin'

It is 0630 hours on Let's Dance, the sun is just barely lighting the eastern horizon and Captain Bill has already put in a shift or two. The coffee is steaming and the single-sideband radio (SSB) crackles and hums. Class is about to begin! Six mornings a week, Florida rock star meteorologist Chris Parker takes over the SSB airwaves on frequency 4045 MHz to interpret complex weather patterns for interested skippers from the Bahamas to Central America.

We are all slaves to the weather -- wind speed and gusts, cold fronts, warm fronts, occluded fronts, barometric pressure, sea state -- we watch for even the smallest change with rapt attention. And Chris Parker is rarely wrong as he interprets and advises and warns. He has hundreds of sponsors -- people who pay to receive personalized weather forecasts. We try, whenever possible, to be anchored right next to one of these people. Captain Bill even signed us up to have call-in rights, at $25 a pop, for personalized advice. When asked for his thoughts on our timetable for touring the Ragged Islands, Chris was adamant -- possibly the worst front of the winter to date looms. Wait a week!

An island tour by car seemed just the ticket since boating was ill-advised. We rented a car from Mike at the Island Breeze Restaurant -- a blue car with over 200,000 miles, a low front right tire and a missing wiper blade. We discovered that Long Island is, in fact, long. Eighty miles of island with 100 miles of paved road....the Queen's Highway, no less! More tourist attractions were touted for the southern half of the island, so we took a right from the parking lot and prepared for a day of land-lubbing.

Our first stop was the Library/Community Center/Museum located in Deadman's Cay. Nice name, huh? The museum was small but well maintained and we learned a bit about local customs and lore. The story is familiar -- once home to over 7,000 people, with salt panning the major industry, the island now provides for only a few thousand who fish and build boats and porch-sit.

Continuing on, making sure to drive on the left, we pass through Mangrove Bush, Pettys and Hamiltons on our way to Dean's Blue Hole. (As an aside, these hamlets, although well marked on maps of the island, mainly consist of one or two occupied, cinder-block houses surrounded by four or five abandoned, roofless houses. There may be a small church and graveyard or a tiny general store as well.)

The sign at the corner for the turn-off to the blue hole reads, "Turtle Cove, Private." The asphalt drive is worn through in spots and weeds are growing up. Another real estate deal gone bad. Near the Atlantic side of the island the road turns to sand and ends abruptly. So, here we are, at the world famous "Dean's Blue Hole."

A blue hole is a cave, or underwater sinkhole, and a rare wonder of nature. Most contain both salt and fresh water and are characterized by a center of dark, dark blue water with concentric circles of lighter blues radiating outward as the water becomes shallower. At 663 feet, Dean's Blue Hole is the deepest blue hole in the world. 

So, what do you do with a very, very deep hole in the water? You dive in, of course! And to make it interesting, you do it without air tanks! Free diving is a unique sport practiced by a select few. One of these is a cute girl named Ashley whom we met at Thompson Bay. She holds a world record for free diving to 220 feet. Her husband, Ren, hovers below the surface with SCUBA gear to act as her safety net should her breath give out too soon. Talk about trust!

To facilitate the singular sport of free diving, a floating platform is installed in the center of the circular cove. A heavy plumb line is attached to the platform and hangs straight down into the depths. If a competitor wants to dive to 150 feet, for example, he has a SCUBA diver attach a metal tag to the underwater line at that depth. The retrieved tag provides proof of the depth of the dive and the plumb line keeps the diver from getting off course and wasting valuable air. We watched from the shore as an Australian diver prepared for a practice run by meditating and thinking happy thoughts while resting on the floating platform. When ready, he pulled on a large, single fin that gave a nice mermaid effect, then held his breath and hooked onto the long line for his descent. Once he was in the water the show ended, at least for us. Free diving is not a spectator sport.

From Dean's we continued south down the highway, dodging the occasional herd of sheep or goats. We stopped for lunch at the Outer Edge Grill at the Flying Fish Marina in Clarencetown. Loved the signage as you drive into this tiny settlement:

There are so many churches on Long Island that we wondered if their were enough priests to fill them on Sunday mornings. A few churches are small Pentecostal or Baptist churches, but most are either Catholic or Anglican. A Father Jerome, born in Britain in 1876, studied architecture before becoming an Anglican priest. His ministry led him to the Bahamas where he reportedly built many of the island churches by hand with locally quarried stones. Amazing!

Our last stop on the Long Island self-guided tour was the company town of Hard Bargain. True! Thousands were employed by the Diamond Crystal Salt Pans until the 1970s when the Bahamas became independent from Great Britain. At that time, the new Bahamian government thought they'd renegotiate the terms of many foreign business contracts. The Diamond Crystal company didn't like the new arrangement and literally walked away from their investment. They left the dredging machinery, processing equipment, office buildings, employee housing and shipping facilities. We don't know if Hard Bargain got its name before or after the exodus.

A hapless tugboat was left tied to a dock and, as the years passed, the bay silted in and left the tug permanently mired in sand.

We were warned to tour the salt pan area in daylight, as finding the route out could be problematic after dark. No kidding! The roads were rutted tracks that intersected at odd angles and were marked by identical, scruffy shrubs at every corner. We made several wrong turns before finding the overgrown runway that served as our escape route. The Queen's Highway continued southward for another few miles to end at Gordons and the Crooked Island Passage. We decided to head back north, however, as skies were clouding up and the windshield wipers looked inadequate.

The rain caught us before we got back to the Island Breeze and the dinghy ride across Thompson Bay to Let's Dance was rockin'. Great weather reporting, Chris!

Let's Dance.....Carol and Bill

Edward's Story

Our last stop in the Ragged Island Range was at the leeward beach of Buena Vista Cay. The beach is about a mile and a half long.....the longest in the entire straggly chain. It is narrow and golden and slopes gently from the low, inland vegetation down to the clear waters of the bay. To maintain our illusion of solitude, we anchored Let's Dance far away from the two sailboats and the fishing boat already in place. We efficiently hoisted the Love Me Tender with the davit, dropped her gently into the calm waters and set off for an afternoon of exploration on the southern shore.

Earlier tourists had marked a narrow path to the windward side of the island with a motley collection of waterlogged shoes -- flip flops and sandals and tennies adorned spiky tree branches all along the route to the Atlantic. Very thoughtful.

The next morning we decided to check out the northern end of the island. There, near a rough outcropping of ironstone, we could see what appeared to be an abandoned shed. We'd heard stories of a lone inhabitant of Buena Vista -- a man who shared this isolated stretch of beach and rock only with nature -- but that seemed improbable. However, as we motored close to the beach in the Love Me Tender, a wiry, gray-haired man ambled down to the beach and hailed us. "Come ashore, friends," he called, "My name is Edward." 

Edward was happy to share his story with us. He was born on Buena Vista Cay a good number of years ago and grew up in a house whose ruins now serve as his cistern. HIs father and grandfather were fishermen who traded their catch with Haitians and Cubans for fresh vegetables and other supplies. Edward moved away to Nassau for a time -- long enough to have a career as an electrician and father six children -- but returned to the Ragged Islands when life in the big city got to be too much for him. Now he spends his days farming and gardening and pondering the nature of the universe. He is a Bahamian renaissance man!

  He keeps a mama goat, her twin kids and a lone sheep in a driftwood pen. There are no predators, but he doesn't want them to wander off. There are wild goats on the island who are partial to his garden, and the battle for the meager crop is ongoing. Edward grows pigeon peas, papayas, avocado, watermelon and sweet potatoes. Mostly sweet potatoes. He went to an old cooler in his shack and brought out a handful of the vegetable -- offering some to us. How could we say no?

  He firmly closed the cooler before walking away, saying, "Da rats, ya know." OK! Our next stop was the hen house -- lots and lots of chickens, but he worries that they don't lay enough and asks our opinion! I am sure that I have no thoughts whatsoever on this subject. Likewise Captain Bill, so we move on to the other birds. Edward has turkeys, ducks, even peacocks! He told us that the night before our arrival he dreamed that he plucked one feather from the peacock and that two came out. He did this several times and there were always two feathers. "It musta been you", he said, "I dreamed you two were comin' ta see me." Well, that might be a bit far fetched......

 

Edward is content in his self-contained little world. He thanks The Lord for his successes and is grateful for his health and rain and the occasional visitor. He lives in the paradise of his choice, mindful of its challenges and rewards. He is ingenious and spiritual and self-reliant and gives new new meaning to the concept of "making do." We could learn a lot from Edward.

Let's Dance......Carol and Bill

The Ragged Islands

The Plan was hatched after months of intermittent research and development. It was simple. Travel to a remote island chain in the Bahamas where self reliance was essential and contact with the outside world minimal. A test of our marine mettle, if you will.

Our charts warn of unsurveyed swaths of ocean floor, covered with slightly submerged coral heads, dark patches of weed and grass, and dangerous bars of exposed rock and marl. Mariners are advised that the positions of all features on the charts are approximate and that VPR (Visual Piloting Rules), including bottom reading skills, good weather and sunlight, apply. Okay, then! Off we go!

We set our course to 271 degrees from Long Island to tackle the wide open passage to the Ragged Islands. Most vessels making this little trip would use the cut at Hog Cay near the southern end of Little Exuma Island. But, being the big bruiser of a boat that we are, we opted for the longer, but deeper, Comer Channel. Captain Bill calculated the tides with practiced precision and planned our arrival at the eastern end of the channel for just before high tide. This is significant because Let's Dance draws 6 feet of water and the charts indicate depths in the Comer from 1.7 to 2 meters at mean low tide. (You will, of course, remember from grade school that 1 meter equals 3.3 feet.)

We traverse the channel successfully -- slowing as the sea floor rises to meet us, and speeding up (a relative term for Let's Dance) as water depths increase. Our trusty depth finder never showed less than 1.3 feet of sea water below our keel. Good news! Soon the first outcroppings of the Raggeds, known locally as the Jumentos Cays, come into view to our port side. "Jumentos" translates to donkey in Spanish, but none were to be seen. We pass by cays with scenic names like "No Bush" and "Little Pear" on one side and "The Driers" on the other. With a notation on the chart that reads "Caution: Rocks, ledges and coral. Strong current, tide, rips and frequent breakers" it is no wonder that The Driers are deserted. Our first stop then in the Ragged Island odyssey is the unexpectedly beautiful and deep anchorage of Water Cay.

The evening was calm and a sleek trimaran in the cove next door proved that at least one other crew shared our fortitude. Morning brought back the age of rock 'n roll as long, offshore swells created an uncomfortable bucking horse motion in the anchorage. We left Water Cay behind and headed further south to Flamingo Cay. A delightful French Canadian family on a tiny little sailboat greeted us upon arrival with an offer of fresh conch and thoughts on local exploration. A narrow beach and spooky low-water cave proved to be the major attractions and we took the self-guided tour. In the late afternoon, a quartet of seasoned sailors bound for Cuba arrived to rest before their final push south. Hmmmm......Small children and seniors.....

A brief rain shower brought a 180 degree rainbow to delight us as we raised the anchor and motored on down to Jamaica Cay where, according to the guidebook, a new resort is planned. Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans.....

The story goes that the construction activity surrounding the proposed "resort" was really just a front for drug runners of the 80's and that no guests were ever planned to sun on the beach or wade in the shallows of the bay. Sounds right to us -- this place is a real eyesore! We encountered two more sailboats here, one a monohull with a single hand and the other a cat with a young couple aboard. Once again, they have both gone by morning, and we are left to wonder at the lack of anticipated solitude. Bill took the Love Me tender out fishing and had a great time but caught no fish, so it's off again to parts south.

By Buena Vista Cay, we no longer expected privacy. The preferred anchorage included two more sailboats and "Lady Marie", a fishing craft, and her rough-voiced captain, George. The fishing expeditions in this area of the Bahamas generally consist of a mothership with a flock of small skiffs. The leader tows the small boats to a potentially fertile area and looses them to spread out along the inlets and rocky bars. Each skiff contains two men....one to drive and one to dive with hookah hose for air and net for the catch. They are after lobster, and often go lower than 80 feet in search of their treasure. This is illegal, of course, but the nearest constable is hundreds of miles away. We are offered lobster in trade for cigarettes. They leave empty handed.

Our stay in the Ragged Island Range coincided with the moon waxing to fullness. Every night, each seemingly clearer than the one before, the moon would rise behind a scruffy, rocky cay to the east and cast her light onto the flat bay waters. The sand on the slender beaches appeared to glow in the bright moonlight. Even the dim anchor lights atop the masts of the unwelcome sailboats did little to interfere with our appreciation of the constellation-filled skies.

We spent about a week traversing the shallow waters of the Ragged Island Range. The islands themselves are low and windswept, with stunted bushes and few palms. The biggest surprise, of course, was the number of other boats that we encountered. Our Explorer Chartbook, Exumas and Ragged Islands, specifically says, (and I quote), "There is a palpable sense of remoteness and adventure which draws a few dozen explorers each year." Right. We encountered at least 8 sailboats and heard that another 20 or so were anchored further south at the 'settlement' of Duncantown -- there for the season and ready to party! At this rate we could wake up to find the entire Seventh Fleet in our sights one morning!

So, we turned and pointed our bow back north -- passing "Loaf of Bread" and "Nurse", "Brig" and "Seal Pup" cays on the way. The Plan led to a successful, safe mission for Captain and crew. We felt good about going to the Ragged Islands now, because soon it will be said, "Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded!"

Let's Dance.....Carol and Bill

Conception Island

A while back, we left the bustle of Georgetown and set our course northeast for Conception Island -- yet another remote, uninhabited bit of real estate, 40 miles further out to sea, its natural wonders protected by the Bahamas National Trust. Six small sailboats were in the broad anchorage when we arrived, and a seventh came in around dusk. The sailors stayed to themselves, but we were visited by a moth of hummingbird proportions who may even now be nesting in the pilothouse.

The next morning brought another 360 water view from the deck of Let's Dance with no sailboats in sight. They have left this amazing bay all to us. Thanks, sailors! Time to survey the surroundings. The 10 feet of water below our keel is calm enough to see the wavy outlines of the sandy bottom quite clearly. Behind us, just off the swim platform, a slinky, loose parade of glass minnows marches back and forth. Also called fry, or bay anchovy, they number in the thousands and reflect the midmorning sun. Fun to watch!

Later in the morning we launched the Love Me Tender. Before the day's exploration, Bill revs up her 25 horses and goes forward and check the snubber line. The snubber is a rope line that attaches to the anchor links, acting as a shock absorber to relieve pressure on the metal chain. We have noticed a little fraying at its juncture with the hull and he wants a closer look. It's nothing that a strip of well-placed duct tape cannot fix and I watch the repair from the bow pulpit. 

 

Suddenly the glass minnows sprint around from the stern and start leaping into the air in front of Bill. Their tiny bodies catch the sun as they are chased in large, glassy sheets from the water by a gang of Blue Runners -- the larger fish making flying, twisting lunges to fill their tummies with the little anchovies. Flying fish are everywhere! It's a wonderful sight and a great adventure for all but the hapless small fry!

We spent the first afternoon trying to explore the island. The charts indicated a narrow channel into the interior mangrove swamps where sea turtles allegedly feed and sleep. At the shallow entrance we quickly bumped the rocky bottom and made the decision to back track -- high tide or not, we were not going to be able to do this even with our 12 inch dinghy draft. So, we found another landing site, full of soft sand and only a slight undertow. We explored for several hours, imagining ourselves castaways on this rock and sand outcropping.

The next morning, Bill decided to do a little bottom cleaning and donned his marine maintenance gear -- wetsuit, hookah hose, buoyancy vest and assorted scrub brushes and scrapers. I fed out the line as he made his way forward along the hull from the swim platform. Suddenly, about half way to the bow, he is eyeball to eyeball with a six foot long, potentially malnourished reef shark! In a blur of flippers and brushes Bill is back on the swim deck. Guess the cleaning can wait.

Days three and four consisted of free time in the mornings and afternoons at leisure as the winds made leaving the shelter of our anchorage inadvisable. Each night we watched the lights of distant cruise ships pass to the south. They are bound for Grand Turk, St. Maartens, Ocho Rios and Curacao. As clearly as we could see their brightly lit decks in the night, the closest point of approach for any was over six miles. They did not interfere with the solitude of our Conception anchorage or the bright lights of the winter nights.

On the morning of day five, Captain Bill announces that today is the day that other boats will arrive to end our solitary idyll. The wind has changed and the seas are calming. Sure enough, by 0900 we catch the AIS of a pleasure craft named Kogo. We watch her approach on the horizon and grow larger and larger until she stops within 1/4 of a mile of us and drops her anchor. She is, according to AIS, our limited intelligence source, 233 feet long with a beam of 39 feet and a 14 foot draft. She also carries an armada of fishing skiffs and assorted other watercraft, a full size sedan on her roof and enough satellite dishes to monitor the space station. Wow!

By the time the lunch dishes have been cleared, three sailboats have also arrived in the bay. And then it starts to get weird. Just when you believe that you have seen it all --- this craft slides silently into the anchorage -- no identification, no visible electronics, no windows. Hmmmmm.

Pirates? Drug dealers? The head of a small Central American cartel? The Rolling Stones? All of the above? We did discover, through constant, blatant eavesdropping on the radio, that the mystery ship and Kogo were traveling together. Body guards, perhaps? Later web searching, when we back in computer range, revealed that Kogo is the 58th largest private ship in the world -- owned by a Formula One racing team owner of Saudi/French ancestry. (Isn't it great what you can glean from the Internet?)

With abundant fine weather forecast, we left Conception to the spy boat et al and headed west to Thompson Bay for a little reconnaissance before the last push to the Raggeds. Now all that's left is to follow the sun!

Let's Dance.....Carol and Bill

The Old Salt

It's a Sunday morning, and we are at anchor in the wide bay of Big Majors Spot, near Staniel Cay in the Exumas. All is quiet aboard Let's Dance. Too quiet. In a boat this size, even if you can't actually see the other crew you can usually hear them. But this morning there is only the gentle slapping of wavelets against the hull and the faint chimes of the rigging of nearby sailboats. No Bill, in other words. So, short on togetherness, I go looking.

 

 

The door to the engine room is open and there he sits, in the natural habitat of the motor sailor. Lost in thought amid dials and hoses and filters and fans. "What's up?," I ask. "Leak in the lift pump." Ah. A tiny dribble of thin, pink fluid is evidence of said leak, but it's not a worry for Bill. He will "wait and watch" to see what develops. Then, if the leak continues, he will assess the situation, weigh the options, think it through and fix it! That simple! Three years of on-the-job training have paid off, and there is (to date) nothing that he can't fix.

And, since it is a Sunday, the clinic is open. Bill exchanges his virtual coveralls for scrubs and snaps on the imaginary latex gloves. Bill is not a doctor, but he plays one on Let's Dance. Without my four weekly allergy shots, I would not be able to roam the salty seas with him so he learned how to administer just the right dosages. The allergy doctor at home looked so hopeful as he asked if Bill had any medical training. Any at all? Sadly, all they taught him in the Army was to jump out of airplanes, but he is a quick study and a natural in the supporting role of Chief Medical Officer.

Naturally, a big part of our daily routine revolves around mealtimes. The galley is well suited for one chef at a time, and is yet another venue to showcase the Captain's talents. For Christmas he bought me a slow cooker -- a Not Your Mother's Slow Cooker!  Apparently not your Wife's Slow Cooker, either. So far he has whipped up a fantastic Tortilla Soup and a Super Bowl Chili that was worthy of at least five first downs.

 

Not only does he cook the meals -- sometimes he catches them first! Unwary mahi mahi cannot resist the colorful variety of lures (in this case a blue and white skirted Carolina rig) that are thrown their way on long, deep, offshore passages. The puny five pounder caught yesterday in 125 feet of water was followed by a sparkling yellow beauty who pushed the 20 pound range. This guy did not want to come aboard and stole the gaff to prove it....although what he planned to do with a rusted old gaff, I have no idea. As you can see, Bill prevailed and dinner was fresh grilled mahi mahi. 

 

The offshore fishing journey led us south to Georgetown and its funky "Chat 'n Chill" bar and restaurant -- home to aging volleyball players, domino divas and beer drinkers of all calibers. We fit right in. The anchorage fills each winter with hundreds of boats, most with sails, full of sailors who come for the season. The nighttime view over the harbor looks a little like Manhattan if you squint at the twinkling anchor lights atop all the swaying masts. Not our usual choice of resting spots, but an interesting cultural phenomena to observe none the less.

We also visited the local grocery to stock up before leaving the main populated grid again. For only $55 we scored a few treasures -- English cucumber, Raisin Bran, Rotel tomatoes, romaine lettuce and a few other must-have items. Food is expensive in the Exumas as it has a long, slow boat ride to get here and we understand that. But the Captain has his limits, and his price point for a half gallon of Hagen Dazs is somewhere south of the $27.50 local asking price. So, no ice cream for us. We have to cut back somewhere!

We are heading east now, on a sparkling winter's day. Deep swells in the inky blue water lift the bow just high enough to provide a satisfying 'plop' as we settle back into the next trough. There are no other boats in view today as we venture further into the great Atlantic to Conception Island - another of the alleged landing sites of Christopher Columbus. He was a very busy and accomplished captain, not unlike my own. A man for all seasons, is Captain Bill -- ace navigator, confident mechanic, creative IT guy, promising photographer, and much, much more. Is there anything, you ask, that this renaissance sailor cannot do? 

 

Well, you might have to discuss his tide chart extrapolation skills with the Love Me Tender. In the meantime,

Let's Dance.....Carol (and The Captain)