A mouthful of marbles

We were sitting amongst the throngs of tourists with beach bodies only produced in America. Tacky souvenier shops, restaurants of every description touting their deep fried wares on the sidewalks.

But we were with locals here on Lauderdale-by-the-sea beach so we definitely picked the right one.

It was one of these fusion/not so fusion places where the sushi chef is relegated to a corner on the other side of the patio and the waiters drop of his menu as an afterthought.

Our host and I decided to share some sushi rolls as a starter. I should have known then. But no, I was in the festive spirit.

When the waiter explained something about the separate kitchen for sushi, my friend volunteered to go order the rolls directly. Maybe I should have been a bit worried. But no, by then I was people watching, blabbing, laughing too loudly, sipping my well rum and Diet Coke.

 At some undetermined time later, plates of food arrived on our table. One of the dishes was our fancy looking sushi roll. I tucked in. Just like that. Without a thought. For my health, my decisions, the ramifications. It was good. Wasabi burn. Head rush. Woo hoo! Then wait… a strange texture. But just for a second. And then I suited up the next piece with a sopping of wasabi laden soya sauce. I was halfway through that piece when the texture hit me.

My stomach bottomed out. That was shrimp! The whole tourist world spun around me in nauseating circles. The faces and voices around me blurred behind my sheer rising panic.

With my eyes betraying my terror, I asked

“Peggy, what was in that sushi roll?!”

“I don’t know. It was a recommendation of the chef.”

“BUT WE CHOSE A SPECIFIC ONE!”

She read my redness and realised I was not just a picky eater.

“Could there be shrimps?!”

“Yes, I guess. I’ll go check.” She ran off.

Conversation at our table had come to a stand-still. Everyone was now looking at me. Was I going to explode into a thousand pieces?

“What do I do? I’m allergic!”

“Go to the washroom and vomit!”

For a split second I figured that was a ridiculous suggestion. All my previous reactions came flooding through my head. Maybe I was just being a 21^st century princess?! Maybe an antihistamine would do me just fine and just maybe I shouldn’t be creating this highly disruptive event on our previously pleasant evening out with friends at the beach…

But within seconds I fled for the loo hearing the discussion at the table behind me – something about an Epi Pen, antihistamines, clinics nearby, types of allergies etc etc…

Four years earlier I had found myself on a cold November evening in the Captain’s Lounge in St Augustine where our boat was hauled up onto land. I was itching and scratching as we sat in front of the TV. I was convinced there was literally ants in my pants. A quick trip to the ladies that time revealed a case of hivey-welt-things that proceeded to cover my whole body. In my ears, under my arms, in every crevice.

Marita brought me an antihistamine while we tried to determine the cause. I had never had an allergy to anything in my life besides exercise. But I remembered I’d scoffed a plate of peel-n-eat shrimps earlier on special. Something I hadn’t ingested in ages. Hmmm…

6 months later, anchored in an idyllic anchorage in the Bahamas I was once again covered in itchy welts. This time it followed an indulgence in fresh caught lobster tail in lemon butter. Oh No! An unofficially confirmed seafood allergy!

But I LOVE seafood, AND I live on a boat in the tropics! Oh Sod and is law…

One antihistamine didn’t cut it that time and I needed a few more to ease the symptoms.

I knew I’d have to become a bubble kid around seafood from now on. But then calamari is not a shellfish right? And it’s covered in batter with garlic aioli! Who could be allergic to that?!

Well, me, it turns out. Found out the hard way after a ladies tapas night where the calamari landed in front of me. Spent that evening gasping with acid reflux, breathing problems, hives, shaking… diarrhea… it was not a pretty sight.  But it cemented my knowledge, that despite my reluctance to accept, I WAS allergic to seafood.

Forward to Lauderdale. Bent over a toilet, retching and apologizing to each unsuspecting lady that entered…

“Not bulimic folks! Food allergy… didn’t realise…” followed by more retching.

Soon there was a crowd at the door. John was there with a waitress and my sister’s expired Epi Pen that I carry around with me in case something like this happens. But I just couldn’t. I believed if I got all that poison out of me I would be ok.

Marita and Peggy arrived back from the pharmacy with Extra Strength antihistamines as well. It was an impromptu allergy party. I popped out of the stall, and with my eyes bloodshot and watery, I tried to maintain an atmosphere of relative calm.

“I’m ok guys. I’ll be fine.” I swallowed two strong tabs and headed back to the table.

I was embarrassed. In seeking fame, no one wants to be the center of attention for intentional barfing at a restaurant. The questions came at me – all way too much information types, but there I was. The evening had been derailed at this stage, so I went for it. Explained all the previous incidents and then this one.

“I’m going to pass out soon after those Benadryls!”

So we tried to get back to other topics. Ordered other food and drinks. I tried to sit quietly. But then someone would look over at me.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, for sure!”

Until I wasn’t. My tongue spontaneously inflated and hardened. It was like a pressurized tire in the middle of my mouth. My eyes became saucers again and before I knew it, faces were huddled round my open mouth, observing the phenomenon.

The stringy thing under my tongue was a large marble that the rock hard tongue sat on. I breathed carefully. I realized I couldn’t speak. It felt funnily enough like I had a mouthful of marbles. But still, that Epi Pen in my purse didn’t tempt me.

Stabbing my leg through my jeans?! Really? Seems so extreme… The others fussed and doted. Paid the bill and we were in the car. Should we go to the clinic? NO.

“Let-th wait and thee how I feew” (marble talk). “Let-th juth-t doh home”

And we did. But inside I was terrified my tongue would kill me. I Googled allergy stories and read about all the deaths…. Bloody shrimp!

Finally I fell ath-leep, but woke all through the night having difficulty breathing. By morning my tongue had only half deflated and the stringy thingy (which I've since discovered, is called a frenulum), was still a round hard marble.

It took half a day to recede completely.

So now I know I actually have a food allergy. And apparently you have to take these things seriously.I'll never look at a set of chopsticks the same... :(

I've learned a hell of a lot more about this topic than I ever wanted to know. I could be allergic to the iodine in shellfish... somehow I am still able to eat clams, mussels, scallops but I get more wary of trying any seafood after this last fiasco! Luckily I can eat all the regular fish I want. Salmon, tuna, mahi, snapper etc etc etc... Chances are this spontaneous allergy will never go away though :(

And since reactions tend to get worse with each exposure, I will have to look the other way when our cruiser friends appear at the back of our boat with their spears and trophy lobsters proudly in hand, mumbling about the garlic butter they will have to melt... 

I will now have to be a real princess at restaurants, only ordering for myself and asking all those annoying questions about what might be in a particular dish, and what it might have come in contact with…

Or I could just stay home. Hmmm…

I guess I’ll have to live with being annoying! 

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.

Rain drops & lost props - a story of struggle and triumph on the ICW

Little daggers of wind powered water pelt my eyes. It gathers; a powerful soaking army that pummels me relentlessly and I am at its mercy. For me, there is nowhere to run. I’m at the helm and we are motoring down the narrow ditch called the ICW. It’s raining. I am perched on the edge of my seat, arms outstretched to the wheel, one eye closed against the onslaught. I am as prepared as I can be in a hooded raincoat with it’s drawstring squeezing my face at the edges to prevent neck drain. I will not be on the cover of any sailing magazines today. I am fully aware of the pooling puddle at my waist and trickling down my legs. It’s cold. I repeat my silent mantra – “we are out of the boatyard, we are off the dock, we are moving south.”

It’s not working wonders but it gets me through a few days of this, when many bascule bridges later, we arrive in West Palm Beach! And in the nick of time for Christmas.

And it’s a wonderful celebration. We’ve cooked up our boat-y contributions for the occasion and we stand on the street corner dressed as the Santa Twins and their eager groupies. We get accosted by the public, “Are you guys a singing group?!”

Finally our host arrives and drives us inland, far from the waterfront and it’s lights and palms, to the land of acreages and today, deep fried turkey! Oh, and homemade biltong. This is the home of a South African. 

The day goes off without a hitch and is even followed by an uneventful day of walking off our indulgences and then repeating the feasting on leftovers. Pretty typical Christmas season stuff.

But then, as is the way of our nomadic lives, it was time to move on. Woke up with that typical mixture of excitement and trepidation. But first, off to the fuel dock for a quick top up of diesel and water.

All went well, except the classist world raised its privileged head and chucked us to the back of the queue when we were ready to leave. A megayacht had thrusted his way over to the dock to grab a quick 1300 gallons… And the meticulously dressed crew girls flitted around with fenders bigger than themselves, like obscene fat blow up dolls… We lost our dock helper in an instant. He was enamoured. Or anticipating his tip. What would the tip be on $4000 worth of diesel?

I had the nerve to be affronted. We managed to entice the guy back with our meager $10 tip to throw us our lines. It was going to be a tricky exit, with wind and currents pushing the boat onto the dock and that looming white nautical apartment building that had pulled up directly in front of us.

I took the helm and confidently told the guy our exit plan, “I’m going to back up straight then turn completely starboard, reverse on the starboard engine and forward on port.”

“That’s exactly what I’d do” he says and proceeds to loosen our lines. JW is ready to grab the lines and fend us off.

And then we entered the Twilight Zone. Just like that 70’s TV show where the world you know is suddenly in black and white and nothing is as it should be.

No matter what I did the boat wouldn’t respond. The boat slid backward against the dock, dangerously close to the corner where metal beams held it all together and threatened to tear us all apart. I looked away and focused on my job. Get us out of here. I tried all my maneuvers but Shiloh turned the opposite way. The wind pinned us to the corner of the dock and while JW and the lowly tipped dude pushed with all their might, Shiloh crunched into the corner. The guys made groaning noises. Poor Shiloh! Not to mention my ego! There was damage to the hull but there was literally no time to stress about that.

Alas, the boat fell away from immediate danger and the dock dude walked away without another glance. His mega called. 

Ok, we will deal with what went wrong later; let’s just get this boat out into the channel. More water around us please, less dock. But it wouldn’t move. It was floating backward. Channel markers, mega million dollar boats, other docks. No! I gave it all I could and she wanted to do donuts. Finally I put her in reverse and we spun our way in circles out. What a spectacle.

Meantime we’d been calling Alleycat, waiting patiently for us at anchor. “Alan, the boat isn’t doing anything it’s supposed to!” “We crunched the dock!”… He launched his dinghy, threw on his superhero cape and buzzed on over to us, flailing there in the middle of Palm Beach Intracoastal waters. Mega yachts to the left, palm trees to the right…

By the time he reached us, we had realised the problem lied with the starboard engine. It had zero power. We hobbled back to our anchor spot on the one engine and clumsily dropped anchor to investigate.

“It’s the clutch cone. Or the propeller is gone!” The second suggestion was absurd, so the boys quickly tore apart our bed to get access to the engine and check the clutch cone.

Alan emerged with a plan. First we'll move the engine forward, then drain all the oil from the gear box, open the gear box from the top, loosen the nuts under it that hold the clutch cone in place and pull the cone out. The hemispherical gears will have to come out as well.  It sounded like a multi-day, grunting, dirty, greasy frustrating job. We all sighed.

“But we should check the propeller first!”

And just then, a huge manatee flopped his massive self over with a bubbly breath. We exchanged glances as he disappeared under the opaque surface.

“Alan let’s hope he’s not feeling amorous!”

So we tied Al on to the boat against the raging current, equipped him in unmatching flippers and a snorkel set and he jumped into the cold grimy water.

He emerged a minute later, tearing off his mask,

“There’s no propeller! It’s just gone! The whole prop has slipped off the drive shaft. Nothing!”

I was exonerated. Inside, my ego and I did a quick little dance. It wasn’t me! I had been doing everything right but I had no power…. I wanted to rush back to the fuel dock to explain everything to dock dude. “I’m not an idiot. No, really!” But alas, that thought passed and it was time to focus on the problem at hand.

We had lost a $1500 specialized three bladed composite Kiwi prop! Luckily we had our old propellers on the boat, in a bucket. For an occasion like this? Who would have imagined.

Al convinced us this would be an easy install, despite the ripping currents, lurking manatees and zero visibility.

He went back to Alleycat for a rest while we waited for slack tide.

We put our cabin back together and sighed. The bridge we were to be heading through at 10am opened and closed, opened and closed on the hour and half hour. And we were not going through it. Plans on hold. Fingers crossed…

And then he was back with a plan. It involved a weight belt and ropes to hold him, the prop, the cone. There were tools and prayers and then it was time. Al was under the boat, popping up from time to time (to breathe) and asking for the scapula, the spanner… we eagerly played nurse.

There was pacing and nail biting. What if the prop dropped? It would be gone. What if the smaller pieces fell?!

Until Al was resting, exhausted at the sugar scoop. “It’s on! It’s tightened! Yeehaw!”

Time for another little victory dance, but now it was a gratitude dance. That involves a warm towel and glass of juice for the superhero.

He checked the other prop and gave it a little tightening for good measure and then we tested her out. Engine on, thrust, propelled forward!!!! Yippee! Reverse, same. Yeehaw!

But by now it was 5pm and the daylight was nearly gone and our plan had slipped by a day – hours of disaster followed by triumph. Our friend/savior/hero made his weary way home to Alleycat.

Time for a sigh of relief, a lesson or two learned, a glass of wine and some serious chilling.

Tomorrow we will begin again with the same enthusiasm and trust in the loose plan, the boat that carries us, and the amazing friends we have!

At 50 with love

It’s a dreary morning in the boatyard. The wind is the only one on duty today.

Grey. Swirling. Boats under flapping tarps. Dreams on hold. 

I’ve left it too long. My hair hangs around, sadly, leaning on my shoulders for support. It’s futile. I can’t write. I should write. Writing is my wind. It whistles through my ears. It is the voices I hear. It is my own voice.

My hands are pale. The pores, the brown spots. The veins are on duty. They are prominent. They exert authority above my docile keyboard. These are fifty year old hands.

Weeks ago the day came. The ‘officially old’ day. But before that I was reminded. My eyes. Blur. The tiny font on labels taunting me. My one dollar glasses, stuffed in every pocket and purse. Lenses smudged, scratched. In the mirror, the dark circles of age framing the failing eyes.

My hair, in clumps sliding down my body into the drain. Thinning. Duller. Older

But I was alive. Moving. Traveling. Fishing for my passport in the backpack with that sinking feeling each time, it might not be there! Then reassured. Removing my shoes for security machines. Setting my liquids aside in a ziplock. Worried. Excited. Alive.

And before that I was stood in blue, in a park near the boatyard, between friends. I was reminded. I am lucky. It was a ‘colour of the sea’ themed barbecue. It was a gathering of a certain type of people. A family of my choosing. Age, culture and country melting away over pop songs sung off key in unison. The food! Cake. The speech! The two hour drive for some. None of it taken for granted. All of it swirling in my mind, my heart. This family of my choosing. It’s fluid. People come and go. We come and go. 

I’ve slept in 26 beds between September and today. 26 pillows. 95 days. 11 flights. 6 countries. I’m moving. 

SO MANY PRICELESS REUNIONS.

Sitting on a plane to Zurich with South African elephant dung in the grooves of the soles of my shoes. Clung to my soul.

The joy in Emma’s eyes as she cuddled Rainbow the rhino. In the Gredos mountains of Spain, a little blond, blue eyed girl with a South African father who is American too, spends her days running and jumping through forests of wild mushrooms and chestnut trees. She is our grand daughter, and her tiny warm hand in mine, led us through her little life, while she held her rhino. Brought from Cape Town, with love. 

We’ve indulged, sampled the world - pizza, fresh fish off Cape Town’s shores, slap chips, meat pies, Spanish Iberica ham, blood pudding, roasted chestnuts. I’ve slurped aromatic sauces through my fingers over a bed of injeera in an Ethiopian restaurant in downtown Vancouver with my son and his girl and a dear old friend. 

Special moments. Burned into me. Carrying me beyond 50.

Carrying me back to this boat. Climbing the makeshift stairs. Working and waiting for the day she is gently returned by hoist into the sea where she belongs.

We will keep moving. South, away from cold. South to where the sun shines most days. Banishing grey. Places where the sun is always on duty. Where we have chosen to be. We will meet the friends who are family in different places. There will be more barbecues. There will be sand. Sunsets.

I will sweep my thinner hair up into a clip to let the breeze onto my sweating neck. I will splash my weathering face with cool water to start the days.

I will hold all these memories of our travels. Of the faces. Smiles. Loving the life I have.

I will write. It’s a promise I need to make to my fragile heart. I will put it all into words. The magic of sorrow and the flashes of beauty.

Here’s to life beyond 50.

The one percent - storms and sentiment

We pulled over for the night at a random little town on the Intracoastal waterway in Florida for the night. Checked ‘Accuweather’ which is a clever little play on the word accurate. Hah. They reckoned we had between 1 and 7 percent chance of rain for the eve, overnight and morning. Pretty good odds for a dry peaceful night!

The eleven p.m. deluge was ok, didn’t last long and cleaned the boat. Right? Ok, so they got that one wrong.

At 6 am as I stood looking out at the dark grey angry mix of clouds and ocean, not able to see land, cringing at the incessant lightning bolts attacking the water surface, thunder assaulting my ears, rain rivaling the days of Noah… I was happy we were relatively safe in our little ‘ark’. I realised we must be that one percent!

And then, just like that, nature swung it all around and sucked it all away, and the morning sun poured in. Pours in now. In fact, I have to try to find a tiny corner in the boat where I can stop squinting and see my screen. It’s a life of extremes. In weather, in experiences, in emotions.

On the upside, we discovered a cute little town called Melbourne Beach that we had never stopped at before. Walked to the beach, found a family run grocery store that had wine tasting – hello! We liked that store a lot. 

Yesterday we were in a town further south. Tonight we will be in a town further north. Precisely 18 miles further north. We are not moving quickly. That’s not what ICW (Intracoastal waterway) travel is all about. The moving, the trawling (because it’s definitely NOT sailing!) is actually quite boring. Navigate a very narrow channel through a wide expanse of shallows, lined with mansions, shacks, trailer parks. The water is brown. But it’s full of dolphins and fish and crabs and shrimps and pelicans duck and dive around us. They provide the entertainment for the trip.

What the Intracoastal waterway provides, is the chance to peek into all the little towns that line the shores. 

It’s an open ended adventure. We accept the challenge. It’s been a while. Haven’t been on these waters in three years! Last year Shiloh waited patiently for us in the Bahamas, the year before that we also kept her in Georgetown in the hurricane season and missed this part of the yearly migration.

We should be up in St Augustine in a couple weeks. Shiloh needs a good bottom cleaning and some systems checked. So we will haul her out and leave her on stilts for a few months, fingers crossed there will be no major hurricanes. In the meantime, we seem to be the only cruisers left out on the water. All the boats are tucked up into marinas, clinging to that false security of ‘protection’ from the storms. We all know there is really no such thing. When a hurricane comes barreling at you, there is no prep that is going to save you. It’s a sobering thought. When Irma hit the BVI’s in 2017, the massive fleet of Moorings boats had been tied up and stored with meticulous attention to detail and safety. In the aftermath of Irma, the photos showed chaos, carnage. Boats strung across the island, crushed, shattered, sunk, upside down on hills…they lost 95% of their fleet.

Right, so this is fun! No really, it is. Boat life in this part of the world does carry with it some serious risks, but nothing good in life ever comes without risk.

Boat life has been so much more than the storms and risky endeavours. It has opened up a world of opportunity to meet and embrace the most amazing people. Literally. We have made so many friends who are family. Friends from everywhere who we meet anywhere and pick up where we left off.

We've traded the remoteness and turquoise waters of the Bahamas for Walmarts and FM radio stations and cheap gas. But this trip up the ICW is full of reunions and meet ups and catch ups and it is the gel that pulls together everything we do, and why we do it. Boating has brought us a richer life with a tapestry of people that have forever changed and enriched us.

Maybe in terms of luck, we really are ARE the one percent!

Bahamas beyond the brochures

We were the only boaters in Fox Town yesterday. The only visitors in fact. We nearly outnumbered the locals in Fox Town yesterday.

This is our seventh month in the Bahamas. The cruising season ended nearly two months ago. In droves, they hoisted sails and headed south to the relative safety of Grenada or north to the marinas and boatyards of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas as the hurricane season approached and insurance companies demanded.

The tourist season in the Abacos ended just over a week ago with a bang. The annual Cheeseburger in Paradise party, on the tiny sliver of land called Fiddle Cay, overrun by vendors and signs and t-shirts and caps and winding lines for free burgers, hot dogs, margaritas, beers, rum etc etc etc… with the bikini clad model types writhing to trap rap aboard the slew of rafted Trump-flag-waving candy coloured speedboats with matching hunks of glistening horsepower. Giant blow up unicorns and pink flamingos and blow up dolls literally, are spotted across the water. Bodies meander, gyrate, fluorescent plastic cups overflow with libation to the gods of excess and indulgence…  This spectacle of a party is unmatched in the Bahamas and no doubt far beyond. 

It is everything that Fox Town is not. We are less than 15 miles and a week away, and we are in another world. The small town life of the real Bahamas. Minus the American glitz and glamour. There are no looming buildings of Atlantis hanging over us here.

Just a couple of 10 year old local boys with dusty scratched knees and a bucket of stinking conch chunks and a fishing line, standing on the end of a dock with a friendly hello. They’ve caught three mutton snappers. Two tiny ones and a decent sized one too. That will be supper for the family. It’s enough.

A walk down the main and only street of Fox Town reveals what many small towns here do – of the 20 or so buildings, many boarded up, at least three are churches. And they are in the best shape. A recent paint job, a welcoming sign. It’s the hope that keeps the few remaining residents around.

The residents are industrious. What looks like a gas station, promising us a refill of diesel for our jugs, turns out to be everything but. The diesel hose, like a dead snake, lies curled on the ground, unused, with it’s fate unknown. They don’t have the ‘Take Away’ food promised on the sign in the yard either. However the shop inside has a working fridge with cold drinks and beers, melted chocolate bars, a 20 lb jar of pickles… in the other half of the shop, Nautica brand clothing and some seriously un-church-like ladies outfits. When I turn around in the tight space, I’m greeted by a barber’s chair complete with a full price list on the wall. A hair salon too!!! Too bad about the diesel though…

The residents are friendly. Genuinely. Out front of the non-diesel-carrying gas station we meet the son of the proprietor. He says, ‘let me make a call’. A few minutes later we’ve handed over our empty jugs and some cash and he disappears down the road in his old red pick up.

We are not worried in the least. We’ve forgotten to get his name but we know where he lives!

An hour later we are at Da Valley – Fox Town’s claim to fame – the only restaurant here. It’s known in cruising and local circles for it’s cracked conch. Not for it’s décor. We are sipping cold beers and eating burgers and such when who should appear but red pick up man with diesel filled and here. 

This is the real Bahamas. It’s nothing like the brochures. It’s definitely not what friends and family imagine when we say we are ‘living on our boat in the Bahamas’. There is zero glamour here. No tourism, no beach, no umbrellas in the cocktails. No cruise ships dock here. But it’s where Bahamians come from. It’s where they are ferried home to after a hard day’s work at a tourist resort, watching the revelers frolick on the best beaches and eating the most expensive lobster dishes. This is home.

For us it’s a lesson in contrast. In humility. It allows us a glimpse of life beyond the brochure.

We feel the contrast too in our small way. Looked for a vegetable or two, just to tide us over the couple weeks before we sail back to the land of plenty. Only one working store here. She had a box of non-rotting tomatoes. That was it. Perhaps an onion or two. It’ll have to do. We will have to open cans of mushy over salted vegetable remnants. But we can leave. We can move, we can experience it all. From Fox Town to Atlantis to nature’s wonders like Conception Island. We get to experience the whole Bahamas. And here, anchored off quiet Fox Town, there is plenty of time to contemplate our luck.