Sailing in the Bahamas

There is so much more to tell. We met many interesting Bahamians as well as other cruisers, swam inside the fish filled Thunderball Grotto on Staniel Cay, swam in an above-sea-level cave in Farmer’s Cay in which a bucket left to catch fresh sweet water drips had been there so long it had a thick layer of limestone on it, paced Haitian sailing boats and explored remains of an old Haitian wreck, sailed through mangroves at the national park, climbed coconut trees, ate coconuts, fed big iguanas on Allans Cay, had pilot whales swim alongside us, and ran aground once breaking the rudder kickup pulley. And yet I barely scratched the surface of what is the Bahamas, there is so much more to do and see when I come back!

I have taken on contracts and projects in my life before which have overwhelmed me, but I have never leaped so wholeheartedly into such deep waters and with such abandon; then to feel so utterly inadequate. This experience has tied into my deepest despair but also has brought me the greatest exhilaration I have ever felt; I have had tearful moments of feeling blessed to be alive as never before. I think having planned for it for the 4 years prior made me foolishly feel like I had thought out every contingency; and also made the leap seem inevitable. I have to admit I was way, way over my head; and if I have gained any wisdom I will continue to admit that I still am… The obstacles to future cruising are as formidable as ever but after having tasted this free and enchanting life style I now can’t imagine settling for anything less. I hope to have my ashes scattered on the ocean; but I would prefer to be eaten by sharks than buried in dirt.

s/v TIMEGIVEN
"All we can do is decide what to do with the time we are given" -Gandalf

I have heard that the slave background has slowed Bahamian initiative, but I find the Bahamian spirit to be independent and self reliant while ‘easy going’. Taking life as it comes; probably due to the seasonal, opportunistic, and sometimes dangerous and harsh realities of island life. Since island life and work is heavily influenced by sunrise, sunset and the seasons, schedules must adapt to realities and I think that is why 'Island Time' evolves. From a positive point of view island time means to relax, take off your wrist watch and live in the moment; but in the negative it is linked to past slavery and poor initiative.

To my layman's ear the intriguing Bahamian accent seems to be a combination of British, Dutch and Jamaican, with a slight influence from the American south. I sometimes also catch odd components like the Canadian ‘eh’. Bahamian conversation is quite animated with lots of facial expression, head movement and involved eye contact; especially when telling humorous stories. I find it quite captivating as Lars tells stories about his youth when he free dove commercially all day long at depths up to 80’ harvesting conch and spearing fish. Sharks were always present and sometimes they demanded the speared fish and then had to be ‘walked around’ by a bending spear. Lars’ father Ronnie tells of when their ancestors were ‘wreckers’; living off plunder from ships that wrecked on the reefs.

There is a strong religious backbone in Bahamian society as evidenced by the many churches. From my mooring I hear as many church services as parties across the bay; and just as loudly. There were several loud 'revival tent meetings' near the beach which extended past 11PM and sounded quite charismatic. They were followed a few days later by several mornings of equally loud and expressive ocean baptisms at 6 in the morning. Yet religion doesn’t seem overbearing. Many businesses close early Wednesday, I'm told for church service reasons, yet bars are open on Sunday. When I engage locals in conversation it often deepens into religious topics. The Laundromat lady's husband tells me about Eleuthera's past, and then starts pointing out signs of the end times. A man in a bar talks about the prospects of his favorite basketball team, asks if I’d like some 'smoke', and then continues to philosophize about God's grace. I think it is the religious undercurrent that keeps Eleuthera so crime free. The man wants to show me an 'alubee' plant he says is guaranteed to defeat drug tests. I humor him and feel completely at ease as he leads me through bushes behind some dark houses to the special plant he is certain is only found here. It turned out to be an aloe plant. I feel safe to walk the dark streets alone here late at night, not feeling any threat from groups of men hanging about; I didn't do so unarmed anywhere in Atlanta except for gated communities.

Bahamians are very friendly and gracious. I met Don, a Bahamian-Canadian and his Filipina wife Minda at the fish fry and they invited me for supper at their home. She made pancit! I was invited to an Easter egg/daiquiri hunt at Lars’ parent’s home on Windermere Island. The kids hunted for Easter eggs while the adults hunted for daiquiri cups. I was distracted by the absolutely breathtaking view of the ocean from their property and only found 5 cups. I was also invited to an April 1st party where they traditionally swim from the mainland out to Levi Island and back. I brought my dinghy and Delphine, Malia and I kept pace with their mother Monique. That house also had a fabulous view of the ocean, the large deck being 75’ above sea level with a pretty path cut into the stone leading down to the ocean. They are closer to Lars & Monique’s house and David, the owner, told us we could use their dinghy dock anytime we wanted to.

There is a ‘Fish Fry’ every Friday night at Governors Harbor. It is right on the beach just across the street from the public library. A low wood wall encloses the cooking area. On Fridays it is covered with a white plastic tarp; I think more for protection from birds than rain. Dining tables are scattered under Australian pine trees. Several bare light bulbs hang down to supplement the light from the cooking fires and the street lights. There is a large sooty lidded grill, in which chicken and ribs are barbecued over wood coals. There is also a huge pan, which is totally surrounded by a blazing wood fire and is full of boiling oil to deep fry the fish. A well worn sign at the fish fry claims it starts at 6:00 PM but true to ‘Island Time’ it doesn’t really get underway until over an hour later. Also true to ‘Island Time’ it takes about 45 minutes to traverse the food line. But I found it a very relaxed enjoyable wait, getting to know the other people in line while sharing rounds of the ‘3 beers for 5 dollars’ special. The food line is a great place to watch the street dancing from. A loud sound system is setup across the street facing the fish fry and a Bahamian DJ encourages and interacts with dancers. Dress varies widely from cut-offs to mini skirts to evening gowns. The street isn’t blocked off; local drivers just know not to come down it. A group of college age girls laughingly try to remember line dances. Couples dance holding each other; oblivious to all. A father energetically twirls his pre-teen daughter as they show off a well practiced swing. A young Bahamian man in wife-beater & gold chains dances in his own world, he politely engages women who dance up to him but they can't coordinate with his moves so they move on and he takes a sip of his beer and continues with his internal choreography. Shy children dance to the encouragement and accolades of all. Barefoot dancing spontaneously breaks out on the beach as well. In the food line the music and laughter is accentuated with splashes and sizzles from the frying fish and the Bahamian accents of the cooks as they interact with the line and call to each other. Wonderful smelling smoke billows out from the grill whenever the cook opens it; the mild cool breeze swirling it through the hungry expectant crowd. As hunger deepens the food line is passed right next to a cook frying conch fritters. Eyes and noses can't resist the presentation once it comes in view and by the time most come abreast of it they are anxiously fingering the $2 required to experience first hand the culinary ecstasy claimed by those ahead. Conch fritters are delicious, especially so if eaten just a few minutes after being dipped out of the boiling oil when the golden crust is just slightly crunchy but still moist and the soft steamy insides melt around the tongue releasing the subtle conch taste. To me the conch taste was meant for fritters even more than salad.

As I was eating my long awaited dinner Lars came by. I introduced him to my cruising friends and asked if he had eaten yet. He said no, eyed the slow moving line, then grinned and said 'watch this'. He ambled over to a woman just inside the cooking enclosure who's job was just to write orders on the tops of the styrofoam dinner boxes. Leaning in to her he says in a gruff full blown Bahamian accent "gimme two-pice-fiish". Without even looking up she immediately takes a box to the 'food table' herself and puts 2 large pieces of fish in it (each piece was larger than the single piece I had been given) as well as heaping portions of all 5 sides available. Then she trotted off to get change for him. Lars laughingly said he had used the ‘Bahamian Father voice’ that Bahamian women grew up obeying. His Swiss wife Monique tells me that there must be something instinctual in responding to 'the voice' cuz it affects her too. The fish fry is a fun safe time for the whole family and children are allowed to freely romp amongst the tables, in the street, or along the dark beach.

We timed our visit to Georgetown to coincide with the annual Family Island Regatta. Lars and his father Ronnie had flown down to watch the regatta and Ronnie introduced us to 68 year old Lovey who let Kelvin and I ride along in her ‘race committee’ boat for the first ‘C’ class race to take pictures and get a feel for goings on. Different Bahamian islands have developed different designs for their working fishing boats and they have been racing them since 1954 to prove who has the best design and most skilled crew. For the regatta the boats must be kept ‘traditional’; meaning wood construction and cotton sails, and be manually sailed. They are classed by size: 17’, 23’ and 28’. But otherwise can pretty much have as tall a mast, long a boom, or deep a keel as wanted; although if a boat varies from the particular islands traditional design by too much it is considered a ‘cheat’. Of course too deep a keel and you run aground and too tall a mast and you get blown over. The most interesting feature of these boats is that they use moveable ballast; meaning they have a 2x10 which is hung off the side of the boat and people climb out on it to keep the boat from heeling over. These sailors are called ‘pry meat’ since the only skill needed to go ‘out on the pry’ is strong fingers and butt cheeks to grab the thing and not fall off. It helps to also have nimble fingers that wont get caught in the metal loop through which the pry slides, it only happened to me once, and tough butt cheeks that splinters won’t stick into. A boat can have as many crew as needed but must return with the same number it starts with; so pry meat can’t just be jettisoned to swim back on the final downwind leg. That also means if someone falls overboard the boat has to go back and pick them up which usually costs them the race. The boats that regularly take the top places come with full well trained crew. But some boats are in it for the sport and publicity and only bring minimal crew relying on locals to be ‘pry meat’. I was pry meat on Clifton’s class C boat the first day when winds were 15 knots, but the next day they picked up to 20-25 knots and he pulled out because he hadn’t brought a smaller boom and sail. So I hung around the docks and was able to crew on Don’s ‘New Southern Cross’. In consideration of the weather he used his 36’ boom instead of the 40’ boom. That’s still a lot of sail; picture a boat that is only 28’ long with a 60’ high mast and 36’ boom! The boom sticks way out past the end of the boat. High wind was definitely a consideration as proven when another boat in our race caught a big gust, was blown over and sunk. Boats wait at anchor on the starting line and when the gun goes off the boat is hauled up to the anchor hand over hand by any available crew to get up speed as the sail is being set. On my first race with the ‘New Southern Cross’ our helmsman misinterpreted the bowman and steered away from the anchor keeping it set. Sam, one of two Bahamian marathoners on our boat, dove into the water, and under another boat, to loose the anchor, I hauled him back in the boat. That same race the ‘Anna Nicole’ came around a turn wide and stuck us, her boom sweeping our deck knocking Sam overboard. But he reached our stern and clung on until he could be hauled back in. The sail runs all the way down to the deck blocking the helmsman’s downwind view and he relies on the bowman for instructions to give boats with starboard tack the right-of-way. My most exciting moment came when our helmsman misinterpreted the bowman and turned into the path of a boat hidden to him which was coming across our bow. I was out at the very end of the pry and could see the boat coming as well as the exasperated resignation of the bowman as we bore down on collision course with the hapless boat. Luckily the boat initiated her turn and we just missed her stern with her boom sweeping over our extended pry giving me just enough room to lay back under it as it passed overhead. On our boat, as I’ve heard is tradition on all Bahamian race boats, everything was yelled or shouted, usually without thought to personal feelings, and then the final downward leg was usually spent explaining the moment and apologizing. The tension that most affected me was between our pry meat coach George and the helmsman. George was the one who would cry ‘get out the pry’ when it was time to tack, followed almost every time by ‘Out The Pry’ a bit more urgently, followed many times by a desperate ‘Out OUt OUT’ as the boat heeled over. Then as we scrambled out he would urgently add ‘slide, don’t bounce’, so we wouldn’t break the 2x10. So then we would all be squeezed out on the pry and the wind would slack or the helmsman would tweak course and the pry would drop towards the water and George would yell ‘IN IN IN’; which was actually pretty hard to do. Clifton had told us that if the pry ever went in the water, it would grab, spinning the boat, forcing the wrong side of the sail into the wind and sinking the boat. So when I was at the end of the pry and it came down far enough that I couldn’t keep my feet out of the water it wasn’t so much that I trusted the helmsman to fill the sails again as that there were 4 other guys in front of me that I couldn’t get past. George by the way was an inspiration! He was 65 but looked in his late forties, he still ran marathons and had qualified for the Boston marathon as late as age 54. Don called him ‘Karate Man’ and George gave me the name of his discipline and master but it wasn’t anything I recognized.
After the first race we cruiser ‘rail meat’ were standing around on the boat savoring life, chatting and hating to leave the moment. It turns out that crew usually get paid so the bowman thinking we were waiting for compensation came over and gave us each $25 over our objections. Don and I bought food with it at the local fair, I a conch salad, pork stew and 3 beers. Michael bought a flat of beer which he brought to the boat with ice the next day, even though he wasn’t going to be able to race that day, and on the downwind leg Don passed them out to the crew which facilitated the ritualistic explaining and apologizing. We came in 7th that day!

The best way to describe conch salad is probably to just tell the story of my first taste. Lars had taken Kelvin, Joe, Stephanie and me on a fishing trip during which we had caught a mahi-mahi and a football tuna. On the way back he stopped at a roadside stand where a fellow was chopping up stuff on a rough sloppy wooden table. He chopped up green peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, onion, a little garlic, and I think celery with a flourish with the knife that reminded me of a Japanese chef. He picked out several conch shells and with deft taps of a metal hammer punched holes in the 3rd ring. Then he would reach a knife inside and scoop out the conch critter. He proceeded to slice and dice the hapless critter cutting away darker bits and accumulating a lighter pile. With the first conch he pulled out a long slender bit and claiming it to be the penis he threw back his head and dropped it in his mouth with a loud warning to any women in hearing of the expected surge in his virility. With the next conch he drew my attention and then dangled the bit over me expectantly; it just tasted salty… Next he selected some small orange peppers and as he diced them up on the table in front of himself, he popped a half pepper in his mouth. Joe was watching with me and asked if the pepper was hot and was assured it was a ‘sweet pepper’ and was offered a piece. Joe accepted it and made no other comment than to nod his head. He later told me that just as the chef popped the pepper in his mouth he saw an evil grin on his face and by bracing himself was able to limit his reaction to the head nod instead of the expected crying and choking; they are called ‘goat peppers’ and are exceedingly hot! The chef then rinsed his hands off in a bucket of water that I never saw changed and mixed all the veggies and the conch together with his bare hands. He divided it up into bowls and then manually squeezed limes and oranges over the mixture. I was 3 bites into it remarking how tasty it was before my whole insides glowed warm and my lips burned with a fire that even my Kalik couldn’t cool. Supper that night was with Lars’ family; we had the tuna with spinach pasta, no-sulfate wine, and Joe-made dressing. I mixed the rest of my conch salad with my meal.
The theatre in Governors Harbor also serves conch salad. It just costs $3.50 and isn’t nearly as hot. I usually have one every time I go and then swig the lime juice left in the bottom in secondary defense of scurvy.