Strong rum and weak dryers - the wild veggie quest part two

There were no veggies. No local farmer’s market bustling with eager customers, filling their baskets with locally grown fresh tomatoes and cucumbers and guavas and limes. The dream we carried, clung to, fought weather and waves to reach, was a façade. A mirage across the desert of Bahamian grocery stores lined with processed foods and overripe American produce. To be fair, it would have been a first if it had existed. But that dream kept our spirits up on those blustery days aboard…

 

There was no karaoke either, for us. Hatchet Bay did provide the safest shelter a boater could ask for though, and Rinaldo served up some brutally strong rum drinks. 

 

He also boasted of their laundry facilities, so I decided to lug our waterproof bag over one windy afternoon. Couldn’t find the man himself but presumably his wife, sat behind the counter in their closet sized convenience store, baby on breast, offered to show me to the laundry. We meandered through doors and gates, kids of various ages playing, guys erecting a canopy, broken cars, old dusty dogs, half cured cement platforms, loose garbage, toys, broken tools, chickens and more until we arrived at an open door. She held out an inviting arm and explained that there were no coins involved but that I could just go ahead and then let her know later how many washes I’d done. I barely heard her though, as I was too amazed at the room. It was basically an outhouse to the family home, all the Christmas decorations and copious amounts of junk overflowing giant Tupperware containers, boxes, or simply strewn along the shelves that you could barely squeeze by, to wedge yourself in by the two filthy washing machines and the dryer. Well, better get to it then. Trying to touch nothing, I loaded up the machine and off we went for a walk through town.

 

 

Nearly four hours later, nine dollars for the pleasure, through about 4 x drying cycles, cursing, rainy squalls, thirst and hunger and in the company of our new companions, the yards’ resident dusty scabby dogs, our one load of laundry was washed and finally dry. Well almost dry but I wasn’t waiting another minute. Sigh...

And then we woke up one morning to not a breath of wind. Easter Monday and no promise of hot cross buns around here, so it was time to leave the safe harbour and head off, toward those elusive veggies! Our exit through the treacherous cut that we’d barely maneuvered a few days earlier, was a calm clean cruise. We made our way out the flat blue waters into the Eleuthera Sound. This is the way it should be! The lee of an island. Protected from wind and waves, a smooth sail south along the coast in the glorious sunshine. A blissful morning.

We reached James Cistern, the sleepy little village rumoured to host a farmer’s market on weekdays. We’d have to wait til the morning. We anchored on a rock and reanchored, and finally settled. Soaked up another gorgeous Bahamas sunset. 

The next morning came the bad news.

Alleycat headed to shore to investigate. No place to dock the dinghies! Just rocky shoreline. The government jetty had no planks… we’d have to wade in to get to those veggies! So be it. We hobbled over rocks, knee deep, our cooler bags in hand and headed in. There were two food stores. Neither had heard of a veggie market. Our faces fell. Our hopes dashed. Our dreams shattered. We ignored the processed junk lining the aisles and passed up the rotting three avocados. We scooped up the few bits of two-week-old-imported salvageable vegetables packed in the fridge and moved on. You have to shrug off the punches and look ahead.

Got back to the boat to find my newly acquired broccoli full of black mold. Frozen veggies it is then!

Our reward for positivity in the face of adversity was pretty much a heavenly scene for the next day. 

 

And then there's the promise of a meet up with awesome sailing friends we haven’t seen since they waved off the dock in Titusville months ago.

So tonight there will be partying, merriment, laughter, feasting. Friendship. And then we will find another adventure to pursue, absorb, appreciate. Governor’s Harbour, the old capitol of the Bahamas is just a short sail further south. And maybe, just maybe, we will find some veggies.

Boaters in the balance: paradise between storm season and a deadly virus

 It’s the aftermath. All is calm. The skies are dull and muted and the trees sway with a soft lilting that betray nothing of their hectic weekend. The cicadas are back and screaming as they do.

Post Isaias in the Berry Islands is very uneventful. It’s Emancipation Day under lockdown.

Today, though there are no parties or flags flying around the little town, there is much to celebrate. We are all free from the ‘could have beens’ and ‘would have seens’ of Isaias.

For us, this marks our first hurricane experienced and survived. There was all the hype and the preparations and the waiting game we played; the two days where everything was put away, secured, our lines were tied and we were as-ready-as-we-could-be and we had literally nothing to do but watch that huge red spinning blob heading toward us, courtesy of the weather media. Friends far and wide sent messages of hope and prayers and worry and concern.

Meanwhile we took advantage of the trappings of the marina life. Long showers. Laundry. Then the tropical storm had strengthened and had been upgraded to a hurricane. We added more lines. The boats started to look like a spaghetti junction.

The next morning Isaias had strengthened further and was expected to make landfall as a Category 2 hurricane in the Berry islands. Our eyes widened. We received text messages that warned we better find shelter onshore. 

 

Since we are hurricane virgins and were a bit slow, we learned that everyone else had anticipated this and all the local accommodation was booked. And so, we resigned ourselves to face this on our boats.

The marina staff came by and said we could expect the surge to come up 8 feet from low tide and cover the jetties. Our eyes widened some more.

But the night came and went with some gusty winds and a lot of rain. We spent the night with our eyes closed. Phew. That was definitely a hurricane-lite!

 

###############################################

 

We have survived hurricane Isaias here in the protected marina and now it’s time to venture out. We are a couple of the only private sail boats left in the Bahamas, as hurricane season is now in full swing. Others have headed up the US coast or way down the Caribbean island chain to Grenada.

Here, the sea is dotted with huge floating hunks of metal. Ships. Cruise ships. They are empty but for a skeleton crew who lurk somewhere deep inside. The colourful slides and pools on deck are silent. Dead.

We are anchored off Great Harbour Cay in the Bahamas. The government has allowed these monstrosities to anchor here and wait. Wait for Corona virus to end? For the tourism industry to resume? Each day it’s looking less likely. A massive industry, one that employs thousands of Bahamians and feeds thousands of families here, is in big trouble. It is everything the Coronavirus loves. Lots of people in close proximity. And so it’s all on hold.

Bahamas has set a new total lockdown. We need to get away. Back to our reality during the earlier lockdowns where we frolicked in the remote Ragged Islands.

We spend the first night in a surreal spot. We drop anchor between two islands. We soon find out we are not allowed ashore anywhere here, not even in the water off the beaches. Because these are not normal beaches. These have been dredged and carried and placed in exactly these spots by the Norwegian Cruise Line Company who bought and renamed the islands years ago. There are winding slides and rides and a 40 ft high balloon with the company logo – all the garish colours and plastic eyesores of Disney are here, surrounded by hundreds of miles of ocean and a few modest islands of Bahamians. It’s a tad revolting. It’s creepy. It’s definitely surreal.

 

And now, since there are no tourists to lay out on the sun loungers or sip the rum punches through colourful straws, the place lies dormant. A random digger moves about, a security vehicle patrols – for what?! Against what? We find out we are on the list of threats. Venture out in the dinghy to cool off and we are literally chased away by a security guard. “You are too close! This is a private island!” “Can we just swim here, near the beach?” “NO! You are too close!”. We get it. Time to move on.

And so we have found another little piece of unspoiled paradise to explore and play in. We stocked up as best we could from the mailboat back at the edge of the little town of Bullocks Harbour and now we can survive quite well for weeks out here. Providing all the storms flying off the coast of Africa swing away!

 

So day to day, we read of the world’s atrocities, the covid numbers climbing everywhere, especially the Bahamas, and when we just can’t face any more of the bad news we unplug and set out in the dinghies. Blue holes to swim in, turtle ponds to marvel at, rocky hikes and beaches to explore. While the weather holds, we are holding on to paradise.

 

 

 

Anchor watch: Poseidon's folly, sailor's sleepless nights

Imagine an erratic stream of 3 foot nautical bucking broncos under your floor. The deep, angry howling sound of their leader Poseidon above, below, permeating everything.

The boat is at their mercy. Our anchor, a muddy claw, reaching deep into the mysteries below us, chain for muscly arm, holds us against the onslaught. All night. 

And we sit in the darkness peering around in our floating capsule, the hopeful against the futile – perhaps by our well wishes and generous doses of worry – that we, and all the other boats, will have strong anchors too.

We employ technology to confirm what we know – the chartplotter, on and ready for duty at the helm reports 33 knots - the wind is pumping. The digital display at once comforting and terrifying. The wind is definitely pumping and no one but us is here to deal with whatever emergency might ensue. And it’s 2am. It’s always 2 am.

This is a relatively common practice called ‘anchor watch’. It always happens in the dead of night, when, by Sod’s Law, all the storms happen. Poseidon loves to taunt the sailors. But tonight he is particularly the bully. The wind begins as forecast about 11pm. It’s now 7am and the seas are still agitated. The wind is still pumping. There is a massive system off the east coast of America and we are feeling it’s wrath.

Weather dictates our life. Weather is our life in many ways. Our plans and destinations and timing – weather. We are sitting in Nassau at this very minute because we calculated the potential for this storm and figured this would be the safest place to ride it out. Hemmed in on all sides by Atlantis Resort, cruise ship docks, marinas and massive bridges.

“We’ll be protected by the buildings” we said.

“And by the cruise ships!” we also surmised.

Well it all came to nothing as the wind and the waves bypassed our imaginary security measures and hammered us all night.

It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. But we’ve learned there’s nothing much to do but carry on as normal until the wind hits the boat! Or the shit hits the fan. Sometimes those are two in the same.

But yesterday in the calm before, we feigned regular tourists for the day. Hid ourselves in the plain sight world of overfed cruise ship visitors.

We are even sporting our version of the farmer’s tan with it being the beginning of the season and all…

We literally joined the ranks of people who are in the festive holiday mood. Sampled the free rum, walked the town, perused the art galleries and marveled at the beach bodies of every shape and size. 

We pretended we would also be heading back to a secure cabin or hotel room for a hot shower and a prepared meal and maybe take in a show or hit the casino.

We looked just like those who would be hitting their pillows without worry of their homes dragging through an anchorage into a concrete wall or another boat while they slept.

But what is sleep to a cruiser on anchor watch? Something he’s not getting tonight.

Later today – if the weather permits - we will sit at the pub just over there on solid ground, amongst the fans and party folk, watching the Superbowl adverts and the halftime show.

Nothing to give away our secret, except maybe a few dark circles under the eyes or an extra grey hair. Nothing but a twinkle in our eyes to hint that we are living at the edge of society’s safety illusion. Living with the wind as our master. Living a life unknown, where the highs are higher than the highest skyscrapers and the lows involve anchors dragging through the mud.

About the abyss: escaping by sea

4000 meters of ocean below, it hosts us, holds us above it’s deep indigo mystery. It is majestic, omnipotent.

4000 meters of deadly abyss, it would swallow us, carry us lifeless to it’s depths without a boat, without this floating mass of fiberglass and wood and metal we call home.

These are the random thoughts that capture my mind and soul as we are pulled along by rumbling motors and the breath of wind in our sails. It will take approximately 14 hours, out here in these deep ocean waters, to cover the 80 miles between Nassau and the Abacos islands.

It’s always a humbling experience, which is why whenever we arrive at a new destination after a day long sail, we sit quietly, usually with a whisky in the sunset, marveling, celebrating, appreciating our successful passage. 

It is literally a freedom one cannot feel on a day to day basis when we are surrounded by land and it’s inherent anchors – trees and buildings and people and society. It is none of those things. It has only sky above and ocean below. Seems a simple obvious, but on a day at sea it is profound.

If you choose, then there is music as well. And it is one of societies’ offerings that is at home on the sea. Music can put you at one with the universe. It can help you transcend the fiberglass vessel and all the things that could go wrong, and just how vulnerable you are. It carries you right out there into the freedom that is travelling by sea. 

So here I am, the sea surface is as calm as glass, while the sky wakes up for the day in the most magnificent way. Black gives way to muted purples, that give way to candy pinks and citrus orange as the sun peeks up into view. I am dancing like no one is watching – which thankfully no one is! I’m out in the cockpit at sunrise, with my music, my freedom, my bliss. 

A day ago, we awoke anchored in the middle of it all - Atlantis to one side, city bridges crawling with cars and massive tanker ships lined up on the other. 

Hemmed in to the west by the rotating monstrosities called cruise liners. 

We left our rocking boat, pushed around by all the boat wakes and headed to shore. We trudged through the sweltering wind-less, sidewalk-free perilous streets of Nassau, in search of groceries. Dust swirled and clung to our sweat as cars flew past. We held our breath in the litter covered few inches of grassy gutter that kept us from becoming casualties of fuel and metal.

We made our way through the artificially bright aisles of the big store, choosing overpriced produce and tempting ourselves with American offerings. All the while anticipating the hot, fast cab ride back to the jetty, followed by the transferring of bags into the dinghy, zipping across the wild Nassau Harbour, criss crossed by hundreds of tour boats, fishing boats, tankers etc., up into the boat, and ultimately the quest to find enough space to stuff it all. Sweat and dirt featured high yesterday. Car horns, sirens, industrial cranes, litter… all of that surrounded us. Held us in the fist of society.

Today we escaped. Snuck out before dawn, watched the decadent lights of Atlantis shrink into the distance as freedom took over and the day unfolded like a new life.  

Funny how I discovered that having no ground at all in sight, makes me feel more grounded than ever before.

 But today is another day. Another side of cruising life. We've met up with three other boats we last saw in Georgetown. Reunions. Adventures. We've arrived in the Abacos at Regatta time, so the parties begin... 

December Blues

It’s 6:23am, the obstinate deep honking of our anchor drag alarm has awoken us abruptly. John slides over me, bleary eyed, and trips up the stairs to check out the situation. And though the wind has been howling all night, we are not dragging. The anchor is holding well, buried deep in the sand no doubt. Just a 6am false alarm to remind us we are not in Kansas. Or anywhere in a secure land home for that matter. We are on a boat. And I’m up now…

Up in the galley/salon, my feeble efforts at Christmas decorations have been thwarted in the night. The beaded white anchor ornament that serves as our ‘tree’ which I hung with care on our mast has fallen, along with the little Christmassy animals… adhesives are no match for salty sea air. Ah well. I open the hatch for some breeze and the silver and white ‘Christmas flowers’ I had stuffed strategically into my bowl of seashells are blown out and around the floor. This is a boat. And it just doesn’t feel like December anyway.

The water all around us turquoise blue. 

However, it’s colder than I remember. We’ve never been in the Bahamas in November or December before. We have been welcomed back by disturbed skies and intermittent squalls. And chilly waters.

Three weeks ago we arrived back on the boat after a three month road trip. She was tucked into a safe hurricane hole but she was all closed up and the heat and humidity took their toll. As I cursed and scrubbed stubborn black mold from the ceilings, I was worried. Would the weather hold up for my boy’s visit? Would the water be warm enough? Would it all be perfect for him and his girlfriend?

And as usual I had to learn a life lesson the only way possible. By discovering for myself that it’s not the water temperature or consistency of the sand on the beach that makes a great family reunion/holiday. It’s the people. It’s the overwhelming, heart crushing love a mama feels for her baby. Her ‘all-growed-up’ focused, talented, gorgeous, charming, mature, well adjusted boy. The boy she sees no more than once a year if she’s lucky.

And it’s the bittersweet satisfaction of witnessing that he has made it out there on his own and has found love. True, honest, beautiful young love.

We had some amazing days together. Barbecues on the beach with the other boats in the bay. Walks on the beach, collecting shells, marveling at the power of the ocean. They swam with sharks, fed the sting rays, got more than their fair share of mosquito and no-see-um bites. Bahamas wildlife couldn’t get enough of them. Neither could I. And yet 10 days was over nearly before it began. Another dinghy ride with luggage in tow. The reality of the cruising lifestyle. Family is far away and the visits are too short.

Seems like five minutes ago I was a 27 year old idealist, headed from suburbia to West Africa; a single mom with her three year old boy headed into the unknown. Hoping the world would stretch out and embrace them both. Off to learn and live and love him as best she could. 

Time is a gift. Time is a gift and it’s slipping away. 

Swim in the chilly water. Hug your boy. Call your mom. Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s just stuff. Let the ocean carry you. Let life be the adventure it’s meant to be.

Miss people. Then smile for having known them. Kiss the sky.

Happy December.

From fun to fear and back again; reflections on lightning and friendship

In the grey environs, various ‘once vibrant’ bits of clothing hang from the boat rails around me, heavy, dripping, defeated; water logged in the aftermath.

In the docile day with it’s soft, benign cloud cover, I struggled to conjure up the electric light show of the night before.

In a seemingly endless battle of sky gods hell bent on revenge or destruction, hours passed with thunderous outbursts and a continuous show of light. We the meek and powerless lay below, eyes squeezed shut or sprung open like huge frightened circles, we stared up through the skylight hatch above our bed at the relentless rage of the sky.

And the rain came. Locking us inside, airless, sweating, still. And water like soldiers, pelting, running, stabbing at the boats and the surface of the sea. With more and more intensity it attacked the hatch above me, crying, drumming, beating in increasing intensity like a dark ritual while the thunder shook the hull and the crescendo an earth shattering ‘bang!’ as the sky lit up. 

I bolted out of bed and up the stairs. JW was already there, standing guard for us.

Our history with lightning storms has not gone well. We are on high alert despite knowing there is nothing at all we could do to thwart a strike should we be ‘on the radar’. And last year in this town we were the sole victims of one strike that targeted our anchorage.

This time we are spared. The strike has hit the famous monument on the hill beside us. I begin to think this might be one of the reasons cruisers flock to this anchorage! Our masts are NOT the tallest things around. I sigh with relief and descend again to the stuffy cabin where the air is hot and stale and where our tiny cabin fans are proving their inefficiency, lightly shoving around the limited air.

Hours before, we lay sprawled across the front deck of Alleycat. Digesting a world-class lamb curry and a store bought key lime pie in honour of Al and Marita’s 44^th anniversary. We contemplated the expanse of the universe by the light of the endless stars. We marveled with our new friends about all the friends we make while cruising. The friendships that endure through time and space. The ones where you meet in Grenada and run into each other in North Carolina or the Exumas and catch up with excitement and enthusiasm. Friendships where giving and sharing and appreciating laughter and star gazing are at the forefront. But where there is a deeper appreciation and understanding. The knowing we’ve all chosen something from life that brings extreme risk and extreme reward. We are outside the safety net of society so we provide that for each other.

And then Kim smelled the rain coming in the air and beyond the sea of stars we saw the duller, darkness of storm clouds rolling in. And we dispersed to our boats with the knowledge that we would be there, listening on the radio, ready to assist, should the storm bring big winds, or the unthinkable – a lightning strike.

But alas, the storms roared and the rains poured but it was all bark with no bite. We’ve all made it through the night, though a bit groggy from lack of sleep, to hike and swim and party another day. 

And our decks are now rinsed of the salt from our three boat flotilla sail down to Georgetown, and we’ve gathered some rain water for washing!

Brown Like Bread: Compliments of Little Farmers

The velvet of the dusty deep blue couch sticks to my sweaty thighs. It is reminiscent of something from Downton Abbey and yet here we sit in 35 Celcius in a tiny yacht club in the Bahamas. The condensation from my Bud Light drips into my lap and trickles down onto the worn velvet. Beside me, Roosevelt Nixon leans back, chatting freely. His laugh lines are deep and his kind eyes at ease. He has welcomed us here, into the hodge podge sprawl of his domain, the bright red building built on the rocks at the northern tip of Little Farmer’s Cay. 

We are not marina guests. Just passers by, we emerged from our sweltering walk across the partially paved roads, roads lined with tamarind and sapodilla trees, past his tiny derelict outdoor basketball court, and appeared – disheveled, sweating and in need of cold drinks. Mr Nixon was obliging. He literally abandoned his errands, getting out of his running car, to invite us in.

In fact, since we zoomed into the little harbor this morning in our dinghies, we have been greeted and welcomed and embraced and befriended by each and every resident of this island. Google tells me that the population is 66 and by the end of the day we have met over half of those.

First, Captain Conch at the dinghy dock who took our lines, helped us up and told us he’s a descendant of Somalia. After the small chat he offered to introduce us to Simon and Jeffery, and began bashing a machete on the dock to call the turtles. Minutes later, in the crystal clear water below, he literally had turtles and colourful box fish eating out of his hand. A family of tourists arrived in a speed boat and paid to join in the feeding while we looked on in awe. We felt like tourists for the first time in a long time. In fact, we felt part of something bigger, having now been isolated to our little tribe of four on the two boats once again for nearly weeks without other human contact.

We wandered off the dock on a little high. All smiles, we passed the tiny souvenir shop waving and promising to visit on our way back, and the emerald green one room post office, boarded up and so tiny it warranted a photo. 

Just then, from out behind a bush, rambled a tall, emaciated man with only a few long teeth. Leaving his yard work behind, he called out “Warm roasted peanuts!” “Come and get. Come and see!” Though none of us were hankering for unsalted peanuts in the heat of the day, we couldn’t resist his quirky charm. Gingerly traversing the tiny path by his cabin, nearly tripping over the blind dog, we came upon his peanut cauldron. Most of them over-roasted, bordering on burnt, and then wrapped carefully in small paper bags. He was proud to offer free samples. Grinning ear to ear, his handful of teeth finding it difficult to stay inside his lips, he explained “I grow herbs! Here is Spanish thyme. Smell!” “This is tamarind. Let me open one for you. Taste! You can use it for steak sauce or on fish. You can take some!”. “Come and meet my goat called Billy!”. 

Apparently a wild dog had killed the female and Darren was saving up to buy a new one. With peanut sales most likely. So at this stage, we knew we were in for at least a couple bags of peanuts. And then he threw in some fresh lemon grass too. In the end, he asked only $2 per bag of nuts and we thought wow, it’s gonna take a long time to get that new goat at this rate. We bought the nuts and added a tip for all his info and enthusiasm.

We moved on down the dusty road to our loose destination – the yacht club. Cooling down in the bar there, flanked by boxes of windows to be installed and random sparse furniture (including the royal blue velvet couch), we listened to Roosevelt’s stories of his descendants. Apparently Nixon was a British loyalist who fled the US in the late 1880’s and like many in his position, was offered any island in the Exumas by the British. He took a slave wife, and the population of Little Farmer’s Cay was underway. Roosevelt says he carved off the entire northern end of the island as his own and now it holds a private airstrip as well as some homes and his yacht club. He’s not doing too badly…

But we wanted to arrange for supper somewhere and had our hearts set on a place in town called Ocean Cabin. So we headed back toward the ‘centre’ of town – the little harbor. Their sign is ‘world famous’ in the cruiser Bahama world. We took the obligatory pic. 

But inside, despite the inviting décor, we must have met Ernestine on a bad day. She seemed annoyed by our presence as she huffed and sighed and rolled her eyes. We left and found ourselves down the road in the far less prestigious establishment of Brenda’s – called Kenya’s Deli. It consisted of an outdoor concrete slab with one long bench facing the street and four chairs. The perfect number for us.

Later that evening, lined up as we were on Brenda’s table, our ‘2 Buck Chuck’ wine on hand, we contemplated the beauty of humanity. The Baptist Deacon with sciatica who can still wind her generous waist looked after us. “How you all so nice and brown?! Brown like bread!” she exclaimed. She rubbed my arm and admired our tans. We shared our wine and talked about traveling. The village drunk, her nephew having arrived and intrigued by our presence, she kept at bay at the edge of the platform, chiding him and gently begged him away.

Full bellied we found ourselves on a twilight stroll and came upon J.R., village sculptor and enthusiastic small farmer. He dragged us through his yard at the top of his 68 year old lungs, shouting gregariously about his pomegranate tree and the many varieties of sapodilla. His wood carvings, all with the same broad nosed indignation, peered at us from their display board as we followed him around dutifully. And then the aloe – the magical cure! He stood above the slighty brown crop and explained he eats it every day. He smokes, yet the tar can’t stick to his lungs… and he offered some for Al’s itchy ankle. Before we knew it he had torn a prickly shoot, chewed off the end and smeared the slimy substance all over Al’s leg. And as if he’d willed the Gods himself to show us the power, the rash disappeared.  We pried ourselves away and wandered on a bit further, but the experience will not soon leave us.

Indeed, this is the other side of cruising that keeps us going. There are the isolated bays with white sand and peaceful lapping waves that inspire us, but then there is this. The imperfect vulnerability of strangers who open their lives to you. The lopsided grins and helpful hands. The friendly tour guides and little farmers. These experiences are as beautiful as gazing over a turquoise sea. They restore our faith in people and society and remind us what it all should be about.

“We travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.”