“We’ll either run aground or we won’t!”

Our second day in Inagua brought hopes of real workouts because we’d discovered a small community gym on our many mile search of a restaurant the night before. Hours were 0500-2100, guests were $1/day – perfect! We were delayed by the rain in the morning, but took the time to relax, update the blog, cook, and research the island’s National Park, home to the largest Western flamingo flamboyance (colony) in the world! Once the rain stopped and the blog was posted, we headed for the gym. Bahamian hours actually didn’t surprise us. The gym was locked and no one was around. Bummer! We walked over to the library to try to find information on the best way to get to the National Park. The librarian called Casper to our service, a tour guide on the island that used to work for the Bahamian National Trust, which is the group that manages the parks. Friendly as he was, we were shocked to hear that a half day tour to the park was $100…. Yikes! We said we’d think about it and walked back to the marina, disappointed about the gym and the high cost of getting to the park for a tour. After a little more research, we learned that the park was over an hour drive each way, which definitely contributes to the cost of the tour – gas is NOT cheap on very small islands. We agreed that the most we would pay was $80, if Casper would accept that price. I finally motivated to work out on the dock and Nate continued tinkering around on the boat. We got chatty with our marina neighbors and joined them on their boat for drinks and stories in the afternoon. The husband (whose name neither of us can remember) is an accomplished Australian shipwright and has sailed around the world four times! He shared countless sea stories ranging from helping Ted Turner win a sailboat race, to being handed a dry bag and told to swim out to a boat in the harbor to work on it (a common occurrence during his apprenticeship years). We delighted in his various tales for hours, feeling like total softies for postponing our trip. As we left their company, Nate performed a massively heroic act. Those who know me well know I’m not often without the company of my water bottle. Months ago, Nate started calling it my “Baba,” as if I were a child that always needed that special toy or pacifier. The name stuck. But back to the story… the marina is comprised of very nice, new docks, 5-8 feet above the waterline, tide-dependent. Getting on and off the boat was a constant challenge, exceptionally so at low tide, where my face was level with where my feet needed to go. Our monkey-like disembarking skills were honed from two days of practicing, and I’d gotten on and off the neighbors boat several times to refill our drinks. Feeling confident as we departed, I took both the drink cups and Baba with me, Nate not far behind. I stretched up, set the cups and Baba on the pier, and then proceeded to use the ladder to debark the vessel (we didn’t have a ladder convenient to our boat). Just as my feet planted firmly on the pier, a strong wind gust blew across the pier… knocking Baba into the water! Oh calamity! I cried out to Nate that Baba was gone, certainly sending the neighbors into a confused frenzy, not knowing what was happening outside, as Nate shot out of the cabin to assist. Baba was bobbing along slowly, but surely, away from the boat and pier. The contrast of the bright pink on turquoise water was the beautiful kind of sadness one can only experience when they watch something they love gently depart this world. I found peace in the serenity of the colors, knowing life could, and would, go on without Baba. Nate reacted inversely. He spryly pranced around the deck gear and hastily lowered himself into the neighbors’ dingy, tied alongside, asking permission before he boarded. Permission was granted and he lowered himself down, paddling the little boat along with his hands towards Baba, as swiftly as he could. Just as the line became taught, he lunged his chest over the front of the dinghy, stretched his arm out as far as he could reach, and snatched Baba from the peril of the water. The dinghy bounced back towards the boat on its line, making it a heroic, eleventh-hour victory. Elated to have Baba rescued, we all joined in applause for his actions and headed home, Baba safely tucked under one arm, Nate linked in my other – happy as little clams.

Wednesday brought more intermittent rain, which we decided to brave to visit the old lighthouse. We enjoyed the long walk down the main street, not minding the sprinkles too much, to the end of the road. We’d read that the lighthouse is left unlocked and anyone is welcome to visit, they only ask that you sign the record book and close the door behind you. The spiraling staircase led us up to the beautiful views of the island and ocean.

We decided to continue our walk along one of Morton’s salt-mine canals. Several bouts of rain and mosquitoes later, our trail ended, surrounded by ponds, pools, and wetlands. We explored a little off the path and “oh my gosh, Nate, look!” I exclaimed in a loud whisper. Sure enough, just ahead of us in one of the ponds was a flamingo. I was elated. I don’t recall ever seeing a flamingo in the wild, so this was a real treat. I was so satisfied, in fact, that I decided (much to our wallet’s relief) that maybe we didn’t need to pay to go to the park, after all. We strolled back through more spurts of rain and returned to the boat, racking up six miles before noon! The weather continued to deteriorate, and we continued to reassure ourselves that we made the right choice by not paying for the park tour. We settled in for a relaxing afternoon and evening after a quick trip the liquor store (situated precisely between the Customs and Immigration offices – ha) and general store. I made some delicious peanut butter cookies to top off the successful day of exercising in nature. We also watched The Bounty, a good flick!

Thursday morning we were up early, excited to head to another island, but not in a hurry, as the forecast would favor a later departure. I walked to the General Store twice for some exercise and extra provisions we were craving (also to return the can of pears we’d purchased without knowing it was $4!). The harbormaster arrived after 0900, we paid our final day of dockage ($10 – so wonderfully inexpensive!) and then shoved off for George Town, with a plan to stop in Clarence Town for at least a night. We are trying to limit our overnight sails to 1 night; if possible, because poor Nate gets little to no sleep, regardless of conditions or me trying to take the watch. We had excellent sailing conditions all day, minus the 5-8ft swells, we averaged about 7 knots! I’m apparently incapable of being ashore for longer than 2 days without losing my sealegs and getting seasick on the first day out (this is a new development in my life) so I fought through some queasiness with some ginger, sea sickness meds, and a nap while Nate read magazines and enjoyed the weather. We watched the first two episodes of a Handmaid’s Tale and relaxed as best we could. Conditions calmed throughout the night and we motorsailed into the morning, arriving in the vicinity of Clarence Town, Long Island, at dawn. We hooked a stupid barracuda and Nate found no pleasure in releasing it, and it punctured his finger with one of its razor-sharp teeth. Glad to be rid of it, we had cold breakfast (no thanks to Barry the Butthead Barracuda joining us just as the pancakes were done) and rounded the islands to the harbor entrance. Grateful for our handheld depth sounder, we safely navigated through the shallows to a beautiful anchorage. We settled in and Nate took a nap as I cleaned and updated the deck log and blog.

We finally broke out the snorkel gear, because we want to get more comfortable exploring the underwater world as much as the floating portion. The harbor area in Clarence Town couldn’t be a better place to start! The water is exceptionally clear and the depths are 5-20ft in the area around the boat. Most of the bottom is sand or grass and there isn’t much marine life (a welcome absence for our first time). We cleared the fishing line off the propeller (oops!) and explored around the boat, poorly attempting a few “free dives,” knowing we have to start somewhere to ever improve. We saw a few small fish, gratefully nothing more; I had no desire to encounter a barracuda on my first unguided tropical snorkeling experience. Slightly more confident in our solo water adventuring skills, sore eardrums aside, we relished in another round of sunny fantail showers. After lunch, we inflated the dinghy and headed to shore to explore. Once we entered the shallow water near the beach, green sea turtles surrounded us! We puttered around, trying to get closer to them, but wow, they are fast swimmers. Giddy as school children to see so many turtles, we docked the dinghy and walked into “town.” The lavish Flying Fish Marina had bar and sundry prices to match, so we doubled back to the local dive bar called Rowdy Boys. A few gentlemen were sitting at the tiki hut behind the bar, so we introduced ourselves. We were immediately asked if we wanted a drink, hastily handed over our empty cups, and watched as the man we’d come to know as Bushman, poured my new favorite drink: Absolut vodka and fresh coconut water on ice. Enjoying our drinks and making small talk about the island, we discovered there’s a pig roast every Friday night at the bar (all you can eat for $25, steep for our budget, but it seemed to be the only thing to do in the area). Bernard (one of the three guys) invited us to ride along to the farm to feed the animals with him. Never ones to turn down an adventure, we accepted graciously and piled into the pickup truck to barrel down the dirt road.

Upon arrival at a place I would not refer to as a farm, Bernard’s employee opened the gate and we drove down the dusty road, past junkyard cars and boats, to a large container on a broken semi truck. The worker loaded a large sack of feed onto the truck bed and we continued on, finally seeing some animals gathering. We rounded a corner to a plethora of farm animals, all commingled and excited to see the food truck. Ducks, geese, sheep, goats, pigs with new piglets, a litter of baby wild boars, and eventually, the few cattle paraded down the road to join the dinner party. We tiptoed around the animals while they ate, simultaneously providing a dinner party of our legs to the sand fleas. Bernard shared the sad story of the massive number of sheep and cattle that drowned during Hurricane Joaquin’s wrath. Over a thousand livestock lost, the farm was decimated and reduced to the small collection of animals rooting in the feed before us. We fed and watered the chickens as Bernard told us that there would be another party the next day, during which they would feast on one of the prized turkeys. As we left the farm, I read “Rowdy Boys’ Farm” on the side of a truck and quickly started connecting dots. Bernard and Bushman were two of the Rowdy Boys, two brothers of family of five sons (we think). We returned to his bar, thanked him for sharing the farm experience with us, and promised to return for the pig roast later that night.

We forced ourselves to take short naps, knowing darn well that if the strength of the drinks they poured us earlier was any indication of how rowdy tonight’s shindig would get, we would need some additional rest. A few short bouts of sleep later, we hopped into the dinghy and headed back ashore. We discovered that the 19:30 start time of the party was not in typical Bahamian time, given we were the last to show… at 19:45. Grateful there was still plenty of food and two seats at the bar, we jumped right in, eating more than we needed to and chatting with anyone and everyone. Bushman invited us to join for the after party at a bar down the road, offering to drive us there and back. Again, not being ones to turn down an adventure, we accepted happily. A rough bar tab later, we hopped in Bushman’s truck, along with a “female friend” of his from the States and headed “down North” for four miles. The locals say “down North” and “up South” because driving north on Long Island is downwind, south is upwind, due to the strong trade winds in the area. Lloyd’s bar was a mixed crowd, mingling an American pilot, his wife, and adult son, with several locals and serious pool sharks (apparently the pool hall is internationally rated and they have sanctioned tournaments). We joined Bushman to another bar well down north (felt like we’d never make it there) and were greeted with a $5 cover charge (WHAT?!) because there was a band. Luckily, everyone had to pay, they weren’t targeting us… phew. The band was a loud mix of reggae and bad hip hop, soooo, not our favorite, but hey, we were experiencing new things, right? Luckily, Bushman decided he was done around midnight, so we were back on the boat and fast asleep around 0100.

The following morning brought beautiful sunshine (typical, but doesn’t get old) and a new friend we’d met at the bar last night, Ward, came over on his dinghy for a visit. After he left, we endeavored on a bolder snorkeling adventure. I tied one of those bright orange life vests they make you don on cruise ships to my ankle for safety from go-fast boats and off we went. We snorkeled all around, only finding one large coral head and a few cute fish. Luckily, the main point in the swim was exercise, so we weren’t terribly disappointed in the lack of biodiversity. We showered and headed ashore for the party, only to find out it wouldn’t start until 1600, not 1000 like Bushman suggested the night before. Knowing we had no business sitting at the bar and spending money for three hours, we headed back to the boat for a late lunch and some afternoon cocktails. We were pleased with our decision, as a large rainstorm rolled through and we were grateful to be on the boat, dry and clean. The rain cleared at the perfect time and we headed over to see Ward’s boat, then ashore for the party. The brothers welcomed us to the tiki bar with open arms and many other folks reached out with kindness and curiosity. The bartender (local friend we’d already met) poured us complimentary drinks (my favorite, again) and the mingling continued. We’d known previously that the party was a commemorative celebration of the fifth anniversary of the Rowdy Boys’ father’s passing. What we did not realize is how wonderful it would feel to be part of a family celebration. The microphone was passed from family member to friend, each telling their favorite story about Papa Rowdy.

Drinks kept flowing and led to the big reveal of an incredible painting of Papa. Everyone’s breath was taken away at the artwork; it truly looked like a photo. Ooos and Ahhs abounded, drinks flowed, blessing bestowed, and the food lastly served. Roasted pig and turkey, homemade macaroni and cheese casserole, grilled corn, and oh my golly, the cookies! Oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, Russian teacakes, and sugar snaps; all handmade by the Papa’s Mother, sisters, and niece. “It takes a village” and wow, was this village incredibly welcoming, friendly, joyous, and giving. Side note: the priest/pastor/chaplin that offered the blessing is apparently the only one on the island. He conducts services at the Anglican, Catholic, and Orthodox churches on the island; not often heard of outside of military Chaplins. After several hours of mingling, drinking, and eating, we called it a night.

We tinkered and researched boat parts Sunday morning, having to pull the depth sounder in the meantime. The depth sounder is through the hull into the water… so pulling it to determine the part number involves opening a 2” hole in the bottom of the boat. Much more water gushed in before we were able to plug it than intended. We would pay for this quasi-mistake later… In the meantime, we packed our snorkel equipment, donned our walking gear, and headed ashore. Multiple folks recommended we go to Blue Hole before we leave the island, given it was only about 4 miles down North; we started walking, hoping to be offered a ride along the way. An unsuccessful 8 kilometers later, we were glad for the exercise and happy to jump into the beautiful blue water. Dean’s Blue Hole is certainly a site to see. It is the second deepest hole in the world; a free-diver’s paradise of 663ft and home of the annual free-diving competition, Vertical Blue. The competition record is 315ft… yeah, no thanks; I’m lucky to dive 15ft without scuba gear and not lose my eardrums! The 30ft cliffs that surround it also bring cliff-jumpers and other whacko adrenaline-seekers (not my style!). The chasm itself is only ~100 feet across, surrounded by a reef shelf for much of the circumference and sandy, beautiful beach for the quarter-pie slice that leads to the sea. We were pleased to have the entire area to ourselves for our first 30 minutes or so, then were joined by a few other couples, some walking, and some swimming. Upon arrival, we donned our snorkels and masks and headed for the “dropoff,” just past waist deep clear water. Nate took off swimming across with no worries in the world; I immediately followed because I didn’t dare cross the abyss alone. I’m such a shameful scaredy-cat nowadays; I don’t know when that happened to me in life. We circled the reefs at the cliff base after crossing the hole and took some photos with the GoPro. Unfortunately, they aren’t good enough to waste precious internet time uploading to the site. I’ll do better next time, I promise! We dried off and walked the mile back towards the main road, with sights set on Lloyd’s bar, at the main intersection. We needed cold beer and a ride back to town… and were greatly successful. Our friends from the previous nights were there, one bought us a round of beer, the other drove us home, and the bartender only charged us for two beers. Six Bud Lights for $8 on a small Bahamian island is a steal… they run $4-6 each at most bars. Pleased and whooped from our success and lovely day, we appreciated a relaxing evening on the boat.

Monday morning we weighed anchor and headed for the north end of Long Island. Winds were favorable for sailing, so we hoisted the Main, then Genoa… except the Genoa wasn’t unfurling. What on earth? We checked to see if the fuse had popped. It hadn’t. Upon further investigation, the fuse and control panels reside under the spare bed… near the depth sounder. As it turns out, the excess of water intruding the hull the day before caused the controller to become waterlogged, frying the motherboard. Expensive boat part broken… ugh! We sailed on, without the Genoa, and eventually through quite a bit of a nasty squall only to discover that our planned anchorage was not nearly as protected as we’d hoped. Optimistic that the wind would die as predicted and the swell would lessen eventually; we hunkered down for the night. Unfortunately, the swell did not quell and we had an exceptionally restless night of large rolls, but at least the anchor held.

Tuesday morning brought calmer conditions and we slept in as best we could. We took a long dinghy ride across a small bay, using oars a few times when it got too shallow to use the motor, to eventually arrive at our planned destination of a small restaurant called Sunset. We’d read that the service was excellent and the food delicious. Upon arrival, Rodney, the owner, asked us what we would like for lunch (there’s no menu). We explained that I’m allergic to shrimp and lobster. He suggested conch for me, lobster for Nate; potato salad, garden salad, beans and rice to share. Pleased with the order, he asked what time we would like it ready. We determined 90 minutes would be sufficient for us to walk to the Columbus Monument and back, and apparently, that gave him enough time to procure some conch and lobster, and prepare the sides. Talk about fresh food! We set out along the rocky, dusty road towards the Christopher Columbus Monument, passing large construction vehicles and a survey team along the way. We bumped into Bernard (Rowdy brother) and he explained that he had to contract to make the Monument more accessible to everyone. They were clearing for a paved road and stairs to the top. We found this sadly ironic, given the current history-erasing actions of so many Americans. We were pleased the Bahamians have not chosen to be offended by Christopher Columbus, but quite the opposite. The monument was beautifully situated atop a limestone bluff, gorgeous views of the water befitting of its stature. We returned down the path and road to the restaurant to arrive exactly at 1300 – perfect timing! Rodney had set a table for us; it was so cute, as if we’d ordered the private setting and the restaurant to ourselves. He brought out a huge bowl of salad (yay, fresh vegetables!), potato salad, and our plates of steamed lobster and conch, each with black beans and rice. Everything tasted so fresh. We devoured all but a little bit of the potato salad, washing the meal down with a Bahamian beer, called Kalik. Stuffed and happy, we hopped back in the dinghy and started the long putter across the shallow bay to the boat. With the weather picking up, we assisted the dinghy motor with rowing to hurry along our voyage, hoping to beat the rain and storm. We made it to the boat with our clothes lightly smattered with rain and were in the shelter of the bimini when the big drops started to hit. Phew, just in the knick of time! We gave the storm a chance to pass slightly, and then made a plan to attempt a much more protected anchorage we’d been told about for the night. Said anchorage was the type that local knowledge gives you confidence to enter, not the charts. Armed with several Active Captain reviews and the confidence that at least two other boats were already docked there, we headed towards the 20ft wide entrance, wind on our beam, waves breaking all around. We bumped bottom on our first approach, backed out and tried a different angle. Donning our replacement headsets, I stood on the bow, giving Nate directions based on the massive rocks a few feet to starboard and the steep shoaling sand a few feet to port. We succeeded in entering without scraping rock or running onto the shoal and were very pleased when the cove opened up ahead of us. We anchored between two other large sailboats and breathed a large sigh of relief. The water only had ripples for waves, despite the howling wind from just outside the spit of land. We knew we’d sleep better than the previous night.

After sharing a bottle of my favorite pinot noir, Karah, gifted to me from a friend at the Vallejo Yacht Club before I departed three years ago, we watched The Darkest Hour and hit the hay for a phenomenal night of sleep.

Wednesday morning was as cool as the night – upper 60s, brr! But it brought sunshine and energy for a workout for me. We weighed anchor and quickly realized the current was much stronger than we wanted. Knowing we didn’t want to wait hours for slack, we puffed up our chests, exchanged encouraging words, and adjusted our sights to the narrow exit. We found ourselves softly aground while turning the boat to aim outbound, but were able to back out of it easily. Knowing the tide was two feet lower than when we entered yesterday, we assumed we’d gently touch bottom at least once. We gave her a little more juice for better steerage and Nate skillfully maneuvered around another sailboat, sitting in the middle of the channel, thanks to the current. As we approached the exit, heart rates quickened. We donned our headsets and I headed to the bow, again, for better viewing angles on the reefs and shallows. We neared the exit and exchanged comments on how maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Eh, c’est la vie, we’ll either run aground or we won’t! I’m not sure if I was holding my breath or breathing rapidly as we entered the channel, but I do remember taking a quick, deep suck of air as Nate relayed that we were aground, again. Our bow was in the channel and the current was pushing the vessel sideways, towards the rocks. “What do you want to do?” I asked. “We have to go for it” Nate responded. “Then gun it!” I exclaimed. The engine responded and pushed us off the sandbar and into the channel. I gave directions from the bow, Nate responded wonderfully, as did the boat. “Hard to starboard!” “Ease to port.” “Center and settle.” As we dodged the many rocks, reefs, and sandbars through the channel, we were elated for the ocean swell to lift and lower our bow, knowing we were clear of the main hazards and breaking waves. Well done, us! In NOAA Corps, we call those experiences “confidence boosters,” and we certainly felt that way. We motorsailed the next few hours, although the wind was strong enough for sails only. Given our genoa is out of commission, and we needed to run the water maker and power the washer to rid ourselves of a dirty basket of smelly laundry; we opted to motorsail. Land ho! Within an hour… boy, do we like these 3-4 hour day sails. Georgetown in view, we discussed anchoring plans and enjoyed the cool breeze and warm sunshine.