Don't go to Portobelo
"Did a storm hit here?" My friend Philip asked shortly after arriving in Portobelo.
"No. What do you mean?" I asked knowing exactly what he meant but just wanting him to say it.
"I don't know, I just thought the way all of the buildings looked maybe a storm hit here."
"No, that is just the look."
The truth is I love this place. For me it's perfect. But for you, you shouldn't come to Portobelo. You won't like it. It's hot. The moisture from the surrounding mountains sinks down into the town and the equatorial sun cooks the moisture into what amounts to a thoroughly unpleasant steam. It's dirty. If you were to take all possible meanings of the word "dirt" Portobelo can find a way to represent them all. Exhaust from the old school buses that take people to Colon buries itself anywhere your skin comes together: neck, elbows, knees. I love walking through town and feeling like I'm marinating in trash. Shit from the worm ravaged dogs that roam the streets in search of food and shade decorates the sidewalks. I love the worm ravaged dogs. And when I walk my dog around town I don't have to carry a bag and clean up after her, she just contributes to the decor. It's charmingly dirty. Like I said it's perfect.
I love the people here. Overall the people are unattractive, lazy, drunks that aren't overly friendly. Why do I like them? Unattractive people make me feel good about myself, lazy people make me feel productive, drunks make me feel okay about my personal consumption rate. And the people here are black. Really black. African black. And they're experienced with racism so unless you're black, they may not warm up to you immediately. I know what you're thinking, "drunk blacks, is it safe?" It's completely safe. Crime takes effort and these people are just to laid back for crime. You can do whatever you like in Portobelo. No one cares. You can do nothing as well, no cares if you do that either because that is what everyone is doing, nothing. In Portobelo unlike the rest of Panama you can buy booze on religious holidays. You can walk down the street with a beer unlike the rest of Panama. In Portobelo you do what you want.
Even the buzzards here are a special breed of extra ugly buzzards. They like to hang out on the bridges that cross the few canals that drain the rain from the surrounding mountains. These rivers of trash are filled with diapers, plastic wrappers of Festival Cookies and Balboa cans and the buzzards like to pick through the watery waste for scraps. The town has no trash cans and even if it did the residents wouldn't care to use them it's they're way of saying "fuck you Columbus, for naming it Portobelo {"beautiful port"}. If Henry Morgan came back from the dead and returned to Portobelo he'd be content that nothing he and his men could do to the town would make it any worse off than it is and he'd simply move on.
How can I say this? After all, Portobelo is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. When you come to Portobelo you will realize that being a UNESCO World Heritage Site comes with one benefit, you get a sign that says, "UNESCO World Heritage Site." What you won't see when you get to Portobelo is any hint of the $77,000 that UNESCO approved for the historical site. You won't get a sense that it was once the most important city in the Spanish Main. You won't see any evidence of the massive riches that flowed from Peru and the rest of South America to be loaded onto ships in Portobelo. You won't see any green or khaki wearing tour guides at the ruins. There are no animatronic pirates. There is no entrance fee and no pamphlets for reading. Like I said it's perfect. You can walk right into a five hundred year old fort and allow your dog to take a shit and no one will even notice. I've done it.
What you really shouldn't do is clean it up. I say, "leave Portobelo dirty!" If you aren't immediately repulsed by the entire aura of Portobelo you may be inclined to walk around the town and imagine it through your Westernized/Disney-esque idea of what it should or could look like "Well if they cleaned up the trash, with a little paint and landscaping...." Don't do it. If that is what you're looking for go back to your planned community with your New Urbanism garages hidden in the back and your desire to make everything quaint. Like I said you shouldn't come here. You won't like it.
Portobelo at a Glance
A blue sky breaks into the sleeping eye, a sky that will turn gray for an hour a few times a day as the quick moving rain showers push off the surrounding mountains. From my boat I hear howler monkeys and the air brakes from the local buses as they round the bend which lead into the town. When you're in the bus as it rounds the bend overlooking the bay you may be inclined to think you're somewhere perfect if at that time the sun happens to be putting on a light show with the water in the bay, the greens on the surrounding mountains are singing Bob Marley and the sixty something sailboats lightly dancing on their anchor. What you'll realize when you get off the bus is that you'll wish you were back on the bus.
Foreshadowing the town to perfection, if you're approaching the town by sea, is a sailboat on it's side, partially submerged, it's mast points towards 10:00 as it deteriorates in rhythm with the town. Accompanying it, in the bay, are the remains of a few ideally dilapidated structures, poking above the water line. Caribbean Pink, Green, Yellow and Blue shacks perch on ancient coral stone walls carpeted with patches of green moss. Small satellite dishes atop the rusty tin roofs receive HGTV and Fox News.
In town the streets of old coral pavers are breaking apart in a way that looks artistic and charming and run parallel to open drainage canals that serve a supplementary function of carrying trash into the bay. Many of the walls of the buildings of crumbling concrete block and wood are painted with murals of a devil with a muppet like face, his mouth a grapefruit halved, with flames painted around his head. Some of the murals have worshippers, represented by drawing the same man over and over again, moving toward the devil with a cross. The walls that aren't painted with devils are mostly painted with advertising for Atlas Beer and Moviestar or Claro phone service. Moviestar seems to be the most predominant which is unfortunate as their colors features a bile green accompanied by an unattractive blue as if part of their marketing strategy is to gain your attention by revolting you with color. And juxtaposed among these walls of devils and advertising are bits and pieces of walls that are ruins from the fort and town dating back to the 1500s. You won't even notice them at first or even the first few times, the ugliness of the rest of the surroundings are too blinding. It isn't until your vision has acclimated to the ugliness that you can see the beauty among it.
In the center of town, across from the bus stop is a large square in front of the scenic Royal Custom House Museum which dates from 1597. The square is a nicely covered in coral pavers and one must step up two steps to cross it. The added elevation would suit a concert nicely if one were so inclined but no one is inclined and thus there are never concerts here. Amid the square are four large square landscaping planters displaying unmanicured grass, palm trees and trash. It's common to spot a dog wandering in the planter, it's nose to the ground, he will take three turns and then squat and take a dump. Last week I noticed an enterprising man had taken his trash and dumped it in the planter and set it on fire. No one cared or noticed. Beautiful. Around the planters are many concrete benches painted in Moviestar colors all of which are broken and collapsing with the exception of two or three. At the Royal Customs House Museum there is no evidence of any employees or formal volunteers of this museum, only men who sit in it's shade in metal folding chairs drinking Balboas and staring a their charmingly ugly town. I say Bwwwaaaaaenos to the men as I pass through the museum and the men smile and say "Bwaaaaaaanos" back.
If you were reading a guide book it'd probably tell you about Festival El Diablo in Portobelo and Feast day of the Cristo Negro which is the Festival of the Black Christ where for some reason unknown to even the participants the Black Christ is honored as a miracle and sixty thousand people walk from as far as Costa Rica to honor it. What the guide book won't tell you about Portobelo is that all these people do is have festivals. They have a festival almost every week, it is the only thing they do. Near the church are sad looking booths, most of which are never open, others which are always open. The open ones are worked by fat women and skinny girls who will be fat soon enough. All of them dress in the kind of cheap slutty clothes common among poor blacks in the States like awkwardly tight fitting jeans adorned with excessive golds and silvers and overly accessorized matching gold and silver body and hair decorations. At the booths you'll find Black Jesus statues of varying sizes, Black Jesus necklaces, Black Jesus hats, Black Jesus coffee mugs, Black Jesus shirts, Black Jesus pins even a Black Jesus USB stick.
If you google Portobelo all the pictures you'll see are beautiful panoramas, photos of the fort overlooking the bay. If that is what you're looking for print out the photos and leave it at that. But if you're like me and you like your ugliness right out front where you can keep an eye on it, examine it, interact with it and play with it well then you might say this place is portobelo.
Still to come are the following People of Portobelo and Life in Portobelo....
Friday, May 27, 2011
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Screwed
"Philip, just think, how many men can say they slept with a lesbian, orchestra conductor nearly twice their size and age?" I said to Philip for the second time that day when what we assumed was Karen's Cessna flew over our boat as it took her to try to identify land that didn't exist. Which is also what I was thinking about as I watched Karen; dressed in her pajamas, play Brick House on her flute the morning after sleeping with Philip. Maybe three or four at the most, I thought. Which led to me wondering how many men got to listen to a renowned lesbian conductor play the hit from The Commodores on the flute after just getting shagged by their friend and boat mate. In that category I have to assume there is only one, me. And while Anna and Bren were there neither knew about the liaison between Philip and Karen and since they were both women were not eligible for my survey anyways. But the thought that rang in my ears more than Karen's flute was what she'd said to us the first day we met her, "I just need to fall in love first."
Karen came to Long Island, Bahamas in part as a vacation but specifically there because she'd purchased two parcels of ocean front property she'd discovered online. With the stock market eating away at her savings she felt the land to be a better investment. Ocean front property in the Bahamas with its stable government and proximity to the U.S. seemed like a better idea than Central America. Staying at Chez Pierre known more for it's food than accommodations Karen told us she was determined to befriend the fussy French Canadian proprietor Pierre. Trip Advisor warned guests Pierre was temperamental.” I decided before I left I was going to win this man over, make him like me." she'd said. It sounded strange to want to win someone over you didn't even know, especially someone known for being an asshole. Who cares what he thinks of you? I thought. But Karen, accustomed to dealing with artists, decided attitude was something that came with the territory for those who sought perfection.
The way she was eating her shrimp you could tell she was interested in what we were saying. Either that or the shrimp weren't that good. Karen was the conductor for the Illinois Symphony. And though I didn't know any maestros something about her looked the part, in certain ways reminding me of other women I knew in the arts. She wore a face that reminds you of Emma Thompson but larger. At over six foot tall, it's fair to say she was big boned; she'd have been quite fat if it weren't for her height. We were talking sailing with our friend Gary when Anna invited her to join us at our table.
Karen came to Long Island, Bahamas in part as a vacation but specifically there because she'd purchased two parcels of ocean front property she'd discovered online. With the stock market eating away at her savings she felt the land to be a better investment. Ocean front property in the Bahamas with its stable government and proximity to the U.S. seemed like a better idea than Central America. Staying at Chez Pierre known more for it's food than accommodations Karen told us she was determined to befriend the fussy French Canadian proprietor Pierre. Trip Advisor warned guests Pierre was temperamental.” I decided before I left I was going to win this man over, make him like me." she'd said. It sounded strange to want to win someone over you didn't even know, especially someone known for being an asshole. Who cares what he thinks of you? I thought. But Karen, accustomed to dealing with artists, decided attitude was something that came with the territory for those who sought perfection.
The way she was eating her shrimp you could tell she was interested in what we were saying. Either that or the shrimp weren't that good. Karen was the conductor for the Illinois Symphony. And though I didn't know any maestros something about her looked the part, in certain ways reminding me of other women I knew in the arts. She wore a face that reminds you of Emma Thompson but larger. At over six foot tall, it's fair to say she was big boned; she'd have been quite fat if it weren't for her height. We were talking sailing with our friend Gary when Anna invited her to join us at our table.
We'd made the thirty plus mile day sail from Georgetown, Great Exuma to Salt Pond, Long Island specifically for the Long Island Regatta. In the Bahamas the racing boats are made of wood with large masts that support a massive sheet of canvas. Many are built in Nassau but a few come from the out islands. Traditionally, the boats had to be sailed to wherever the race was to be held. Not an easy thing to do when you consider the size of boats and the hundreds of nautical miles of ocean that the Bahamian Islands are spread across. These days the boats are brought to the race on larger boats. The Regatta boats are small but carry ten to fifteen men, most acting as ballasts hanging off the windward side to prevent the boat for toppling over. And since being ballast isn't a high enough honors to prevent crew from going out the night before a race and getting shit canned it isn't uncommon to find your way onto boat the day of the race.
Upon hearing about our limited experience as sailors Karen started to consider the idea for herself if her contract with the symphony wasn't renewed the following year. Her most significant concern was the availability of pharmaceuticals as she kept referring to "my condition" and after pressing insinuated it was heart related. And indeed she had issues that were heart related because when asking Gary about his opinion on catamarans she said, "I just need to fall in love first.” Before we left the restaurant, Long Island Breeze, Gary invited Karen and the rest of us over for drinks on his boat that evening.
When Karen climbed in the dinghy it was clear she hadn't spent anytime on the water. She lumbered awkwardly, her feet unable to anticipate the movement of the boat she nearly toppled forward. She gave an embarrassed smile. I noticed her pale ankles freckled with mosquito bites. They were nearly the same diameter as her upper calf, more tree trunks than leg. Aboard his boat Cool Change, Gary served Rum with Coconut Milk garnished with a cherry. We shared stories about being on the water. Philip told Karen about being in marching band in highschool. During an awkward silence Anna asked Karen to share a funny moment from the symphony. Karen shared a story about a famous violinist who was giving a performance with her. Not only was the guest of honor a great violinist he was also wheel chair bound and before the show, as Karen was wheeling him through the theater the wheel jammed and she nearly dumped him from his chair. Karen blushed and laughed as she told the story and everyone else joined in to make her feel comfortable. I said, "that's really funny" which is what I do when someone tells me something that isn't but I'm not up to fake laugh.
It was after 9:00 when we left Gary's boat to go back to Long Island Breeze for the Regatta Party and the live Rake and Scrape Band. The band was charging $10 cover but since we arrived from the back via our dinghies, we hoped to go unnoticed. After ten or so minutes of doing our best job to blend in with the patio furniture we were busted. Karen paid cover for Gary, Philip, Anna and I. In return we bought her a five-dollar rum cocktail. As we sat on the patio, only a few other people had arrived but the main restaurant was still mostly filled with diners. Karen decided to enjoy her cocktail in the pool and proceeded to remove her clothes, revealing a one piece she wore underneath, shortly, after which a staff member instructed her to put her clothes back on and remove herself from the water. Not too long afterwards a couple of younger women in small bathing suits jumped in but not one said anything to them. Now wet and slightly intoxicated she sat on the patio chairs with us drinking a rum punch looking sad. I felt like sitting down next to her, putting my arm over her shoulder and saying, “Sweetie some people are just mean. It’s not about who you are on the outside.” But in reality it is about who you are on the outside and since Karen was in her fifties I figured she knew that by now.
The next few days we didn't see or hear from Karen. We spent each day at The Regatta only slightly watching the race. With barely enough wind to fill their sails the race wasn't as exciting as it might have been were the weather different. The stalls at the Regatta Park were filled with vendors. Bahamian fair food, conch fried or ceviche style, hamburgers, jerk chicken, Kalik and the surprisingly tasty Sky Juice which is gin, coconut milk and coconut water over ice. I bought conch fritters from a woman wearing a Publix apron. Each evening they had music at the park. One night Gary, Anna and I watched a once famous Bahamian musician named Jay Mitchell. He performed soul music in a Bahamian-Blue outfit studded with rhinestones and glitter, the shirt entirely open exposing his sweaty chest. As he sang local strung out drunken Rastas, some of who were passed out earlier during the race awoke from their stupor to sway around him. My favorite was his new song Gotta Keep My Belly Full which made the Rastas rub their bellies in circles as he sang
“Gotta keep my belly full Gotta keep my belly full
Like a Rasta I don’t eat no pork
But I’ll eat a lobster
without a knife and a fork
Gotta keep my belly full”
“Gotta keep my belly full Gotta keep my belly full
Like a Rasta I don’t eat no pork
But I’ll eat a lobster
without a knife and a fork
Gotta keep my belly full”
The day after the Regatta, Gary returned to Great Exuma. Philip, Anna and I decided to hitchhike south to see what we'd see. Unlike the other Bahamian islands no one was quick to give us a ride. Eventually a white pick up pulled over with two British guys. Curly and John were developers building a marina in Stella Maris, on the north side of the island. They were from Andorra, a country that none of us had heard of and sounded more like a region in Narnia than 181 sq miles of land between Spain and France. However they had wheels so we hopped in. They gave us a lift to Max's Famous Conch Bar. We had a few beers, used the wifi and chatted with John and Curly. At Max's Anna received an email from Karen. She was at a restaurant nearby with her friend Bren, who'd flown in a couple days before. We got a ride from a guy leaving Max's and he took us down a dirt road that led to the coast. He left us at the tiny restaurant where Karen's rental car was the only one occupying the parking lot. Outside a baby white goat clip clopped around the wooden patio. Inside Karen, wearing pajamas gave us warm hugs introduced us to her friend Bren and insisted that we share their lunch of fresh lobster and salad with them. Karen told us she still hadn't found her parcels of land and was beginning to worry if they even existed. Unable to reach the person who'd sold them to her things were looking sketchy.
Bren was the kind of person you met and were suddenly old friends. She said whatever came to her mind, which was often inappropriate but funny. She was Karen's antithesis peppy and exuberant in contrast to Karen's exhausted aura. Bren was large but somehow more demur than Karen. An accurate personal ad would describe her as voluptuous. She wore make up. Karen wore pajamas. It was obvious she spent time getting ready in the morning. She also made Karen switch accommodations from Chez Pierre to a rental house on the southern end of the island near Clarence Town because she needed air conditioning. Bren and Karen were lesbian friends who'd met online and hung out two or three times before.
As lunch concluded Curly and John wandered into the restaurant on their Sunday ritual Bar Beer Hop. I mentioned to Karen that they were developers and might have information related to her property. Karen interrogated Curly on what he knew. After hearing the details Curly told Karen she'd likely been taken. Curly also informed Karen that there wasn't much legal recourse she could pursue, that the modern day pirates of the Bahamas were in the business of selling titles to land that didn't exist. Karen maintained a positive self-depreciating sense of humor on finding out she'd probably lost $40,00 she held up her glass and said, "here's to me getting screwed in the Bahamas." She laughed but you could tell it hurt.
After lunch we went with Karen and Bren to Dean's Blue Hole, the world's largest. Anna and I chatted with Bren and floated 663 feet above the bottom of the hole while Karen and Philip snorkeled. As we were leaving Karen received a call on her cell. It was a reporter from Illinois calling for her reaction to the symphony opting to not renew her contract. The newspaper must have read "Symphony Conductor Startled." Karen, unaware of the decision until the reporter called was in shock. She asked more questions of the reporter than he did of her.
While Karen drove, Bren in the passenger seat and the three of us in the back Philip made implications as to his sexual prowess. The fact that Karen and Bren were lesbians on a vacation together didn't inhibit Philip from overtly flirting with Bren. Bren, the playful type, flirted back. A lot of it involved talk about sticking things in butts, spankings and putting things in one another’s mouths. Thinking of her friend's day Bren suggested we get wine, quick. We stopped at a restaurant (liquor stores in the Bahamas are closed Sundays) and Bren bought us dinner and wine to go. While we waited for our food Karen went for a swim in the restaurant pool. I hoped no one kicked her out this time.
At the rental house Bren and Philip, still flirting, unpacked the to go boxes and plated dinner for everyone. Conversation at dinner became overtly sexual. Bren was winking and whispering to Anna. Philip was winking at Bren and Karen looked strung out. She made a comment I can’t quite recall, likely because I was startled when she began to remove her shirt. I had the bad feeling everyone was about to get naked and since I was only interested in seeing one person at the table naked I was thankful when Karen put her shirt back down and with that the conversation changed directions. But after dinner the conversation moved back towards sex when Karen sat on the floor while Bren, Anna and I sat on one couch and Philip on the other. Karen became hyper-talkative. Karen and Bren talked about vibrators, shapes, designs, wattage. She made Bren out to be a sort of wishy washy lesbian because she used to be married. Karen only had sex with a man once, when she was in her mid twenties and described it as awful and completely unsatisfying. Her entire life her Christian family made her afraid of sex with men. It was treated as something bad and dirty; to be avoided and so not to disappoint them family she became a lesbian. “Maybe I need to give men another chance, just for the hell of It.,” she said. Eventually Bren went to bed and Anna and I did shortly after. As I was getting a glass of water Philip and Karen were looking out the window at the lightning.
At the rental house Bren and Philip, still flirting, unpacked the to go boxes and plated dinner for everyone. Conversation at dinner became overtly sexual. Bren was winking and whispering to Anna. Philip was winking at Bren and Karen looked strung out. She made a comment I can’t quite recall, likely because I was startled when she began to remove her shirt. I had the bad feeling everyone was about to get naked and since I was only interested in seeing one person at the table naked I was thankful when Karen put her shirt back down and with that the conversation changed directions. But after dinner the conversation moved back towards sex when Karen sat on the floor while Bren, Anna and I sat on one couch and Philip on the other. Karen became hyper-talkative. Karen and Bren talked about vibrators, shapes, designs, wattage. She made Bren out to be a sort of wishy washy lesbian because she used to be married. Karen only had sex with a man once, when she was in her mid twenties and described it as awful and completely unsatisfying. Her entire life her Christian family made her afraid of sex with men. It was treated as something bad and dirty; to be avoided and so not to disappoint them family she became a lesbian. “Maybe I need to give men another chance, just for the hell of It.,” she said. Eventually Bren went to bed and Anna and I did shortly after. As I was getting a glass of water Philip and Karen were looking out the window at the lightning.
The next morning on the way into the kitchen I didn’t notice anyone awake. When I turned around Philip crept in and whispered
“Dude I have to tell you something.”
“What?” I whispered back
“I had sex with Karen.”
“Really? What? Oh my god Philip. Not uh. Really? She’s a lesbian.”
“Yea. I know. She came out of her room and was like Philip I want to have sex with you.”
“If anything I thought you’d have sex with Bren or both of them.”
“I know me too. How old do you think she is?”
“Old. But it doesn’t matter. You did the right thing. She was having a bad day. Philip, just think, how many men can say they slept with a lesbian, orchestra conductor nearly twice their size and age?"
“Dude I have to tell you something.”
“What?” I whispered back
“I had sex with Karen.”
“Really? What? Oh my god Philip. Not uh. Really? She’s a lesbian.”
“Yea. I know. She came out of her room and was like Philip I want to have sex with you.”
“If anything I thought you’d have sex with Bren or both of them.”
“I know me too. How old do you think she is?”
“Old. But it doesn’t matter. You did the right thing. She was having a bad day. Philip, just think, how many men can say they slept with a lesbian, orchestra conductor nearly twice their size and age?"
Thursday, October 14, 2010
No One In Harbour Island Likes Us
If you ask Anna, Philip and I which place we enjoyed the most out of the 30+ we stopped in through The Bahamas we all agree Harbour Island was one of the best.
Harbour Island lies just east of the Eleutheran main land in what would be described as the Central Bahamas. It''s known as a luxury destination and isn't as regularly frequented by cruising sailboats. It likes to promote it's pink sand beaches, which is a result of the extensive coral that skirts the shore being crushed by the waves. While Harbour Island has some cars the main method of transportation is golf carts. The town is cute with lots of flowers but not too cute where it feels sterile. There are beautiful houses and ones that are barely standing, both adding to the character. We arrived in Harbour Island from Little Harbor, about fifty nautical miles north in the Abacos.
On the sail from Little Harbor to Harbour Island the sea was becalmed but the storm clouds weaved around us. Each time I put on my foul weather gear the clouds would clear out of our way. When stripped back to my bathing suit the clouds reappeared, looking dark and ominous. Again I changed back and the clouds disappeared which made me impressed me and I thought, "Is this what they meant by rain proof?" Along the way we hooked a massive Bull Dolphin upwards of 60lbs. It flashed metallic blues and greens each time it leapt from the water. Once aboard we filled its gills with vodka. It sounds strange but through other sailors we learned that this is the best way to subdue a fish that is thrashing about deck and beating you with its tail. Chris then filleted a weeks worth of fish.
The entrance to Harbour Island from the north is named The Devils Backbone and sounds like something from a Pirate's of the Caribbean. Our charts and guides highly recommended using a pilot to navigate The Backbone as it was a combination of dangerous reef and shoals only navigable by eye and experience. Our pilot, John Roberts met us less than a mile from The Backbone. He tied his boat to our stern, climbed aboard and took the helm. He was from Spanish Wells and sounded half British. He smoked Viceroys and worked as a chef aboard a Lobster boat during the season. In the off-season he worked as a pilot and a fishing guide. True to it's name the backbone was sprinkled with coral patches, at times we were less than 10 yards from the crashing waves at the beach and others, as the backbone zagged we were more than 150 yards from shore. On the way to Harbour Island he pointed out Man Island. He said Man Island had wild goats and was a pleasant anchorage. The possibility of capturing a wild goat filled my mind. I'd place it's horns on the bowsprit, I thought.John deposited us at a nice anchorage in between Valentine's Marina and Ramora Bay Marina.
A few days after leaving Hopetown in the Abacos my back went out. Not out, as in, it was partying and having a good time, out, as in severe pain and completely not working. After a few days it cleared up but I needed to get some muscle relaxers at some point in case it happened again. Aboard a boat, in the middle of the ocean, the pharmaceuticals you carry are important, you can't simply run down to the corner CVS. So in Harbour Island I went to the government clinic to visit the doctor. We'd done this before in the Abacos. The Bahamas has great subsidized medicine. A doctor visit is $30 and a prescription somewhere between two to five dollars. Anna and I made an appointment to come back and see the doctor on our way out to dinner. When we arrived we each had two beers in hand to prevent us from buying them at the restaurant where they were more expensive. The doctor asked me about my back and then wrote me a prescription for fifty muscle relaxers. He then counseled us on abusing alcohol. Afterward he said we owed him $100. I told him he was confused that the cost was written on the wall, right above the price for having a baby (free). Eventually, after a little whining he accepted the $30.
Our anchorage off the Ramora Bay Club was perfect for us because the marina had showers that were unlocked which meant we didn't have to shower in the ocean. It also meant we didn't have to shower in the outdoor shower of stranger's vacation homes as we did in Hopetown. We had free, hot freshwater showers only a short dinghy ride away. Chris and Amber had left to go back to the States for a Jimmy Buffet concert and Philip, Anna and I decided to go snorkeling. The sun was set to broil, the most intense it had been yet and we welcomed the heat. On the way back to the boat we stopped to pickup my prescription. At the food stand next door I asked the young Bahamian behind the counter if he had any old food to give us. He gave us a large tray of french fries and invited us out with him. Shawn had a nice smile and told us he was excited to party. We agreed to meet up with him later that night.
Early that evening at the marina, while we waited for Anna to finish showering Philip and I walked up to the bar at Ramora Bay. There we met two older men, Chuck and Brian, both wasted. Brian was nice and strongly resembled Brian Dennehy. He looked like someone who'd been told by his doctor to lay off red meat. Chuck was a bit younger and much louder. Both had Boston accents. Chuck asked us if we liked Jimmy Buffet. We said, yeah of course. Chuck's daughter was the first mate of Buffet's ship, The Continental Drifter, her fiancee the captain. He told us if we got him wasted he'd tell us it was going to be off Andros Island from May 3-10. Philip and I looked at each other confused because he'd just told us exactly where and when to find Jimmy. He then went on to boast about how he'd been fishing with Buffet, got high with him, what a nice guy he was and so forth. He even called him Jim which irritated me. I hate when people try to act like they know celebrities like "oh me and Brad (as in Pitt) were going to meet Angie as in (Angelina)." I find it humiliating to everyone involved.
Chuck and Brian were in Harbour Island to fish on Chuck's 38ft. Bertram. Brian came down yesterday and tomorrow was their first day out but it was clear that tonight was to be spent getting hammered.. Anna who had now found us at the bar asked if we could go fishing with them tomorrow. They happily agreed with Chuck's condition that Philip bring a few joints and then offered to give us a lift into town on the golf cart they'd rented. As we had our dirty clothes, shampoo, soap and loofahs we asked for a few minutes to take everything back to the boat. They assured us they'd be waiting and we agreed to be back in ten minutes.
Ten minutes later the Ramora Bay Marina Bar was empty. We climbed back into the dinghy and tied up about a quarter mile north at Valentine's Marina in the center of town. After two blocks of walking we saw Chuck stumbling towards a restaurant from the other side of the street coughing and hacking heavily.
"Hey Chuck! You left us. Are you okay?" Philip asked.
"Yeah I just had a sneeze attack and had to go outside."
"You mean you just had a vomit attack and had to go puke." Philip retorted as Chuck walked back into the restaurant.
The three of us continued walking in an attempt to find something cheap and fun. We carried with us bottle of vodka stuffed in a sock. On the boat all bottles are stowed in socks so they don't break at sea. Approaching a hill we saw two bicycles coming towards us, as they got closer we saw it was a young couple. I'm unsure if we initiated it or they did but we began chatting with Paige, a blond fair skinned Alabamian and his cheerful new bride Jessica. They lived in California but had just gotten married and were on their honeymoon. We learned they were staying at Ramora Bay and informed them that is where we shower. After a few minutes of discussing what there was two do three golf carts pulled up and Jessica and Paige smiled and said, "Hey Duke!" Two of the men got off the golf carts, took the bikes from Jessica and Paige and insisted they ride in cart. "We're going to Vic-Hums" someone said. Quickly, Anna and I jumped in the back of a cart and Philip in the front seat next to Duke.
"Where are you headed." said Duke as if to say, he didn't know us and certainly didn't invite us to go anywhere with him
"Wherever this carts going, we're going." said Philip
Duke was from Michigan, middle aged, with gray hair and matching stubble. His parents owned a home on Harbour Island and he and his buddies, the guys on the other carts were down for a visit.
"What's in the sock" said Duke
"Vodka." said Philip "You want a pull?"
"A pull?"
"Yeah a pull-a -vodka"
"A pullavodka?
"Yes. Want one?"
"What the hell uh a pullavodka?"
"What do you mean? A pull you know like you put it to your lips and take a pull-a-vodka."
"I have no idea what you're talking about"
"You guys, this joker has no idea what a pull-a-vodka is." Philip said to Anna and I as if Duke wasn't there. We laughed but also hoped not to lose our ride.
"I've heard of a tractor pull, a shot of vodka, but never head of a pull-a-vodka.
"It's just putting it to your lips, it's not that big of deal. I'm just offering you a drink."
"No thanks." mumbled Duke, irritated he'd let us in his cart.
At Vic-Hums we ordered water with lime to go with our sock of vodka. Vic-Hums was a large club and though it wasn't a place tourists would hang out it featured what they claimed was the world's largest coconut behind the bar. At the back was a large dance floor and a basketball court that was fully enclosed except for the roof and surrounded by tables. Philip came out of the bathroom looking startled.
"You okay Philip?" I asked
"Some guy just closed the door on me and put an eight ball in my hand. When I tried to hand it back to him he didn't want to take it."
"What'd you say?"
"Well, I said, it's cool man but I don't really need any of this and then handed it back to him."
Outside we ran into the skinny Bahamian with little teeth who sold Philip pot the day before. He gave us half his blunt and left. Back inside for more water someone said "everybody come outside, quick."
What we couldn't hear from inside was a marching Junkannoo band. Twenty or so Bahamians dressed in yellow feathers and white t-shirts marched down the street with tubas, trombones, cow bells, maracas and every drum you could imagine, even giant oil drums converted to drums. They danced and shook violently, to the beat of Junkannoo, a mixture of Caribbean and African rhythms. Philip, Anna and I joined the band. We spilled our drinks as we danced with them in the street and played on their drums. When the band moved on down the road everyone climbed back on the carts and headed to Gusty's.
Gusty's was a small bar but what was unique about it was the floor inside was entirely sand. The bar was on a hill which allowed the patio off the back some elevation and a nice clear view of the sea. I drank and talked to Paige and Duke's friends. There we met up with Shawn who was happy to see us. Anna danced with Shawn and Jessica until Philip started dancing with Jessica. What was initially innocent hey we're having fun dancing quickly morphed into Philip and Jessica having sex with their clothes on. Anna grabbed my arm and asked me if i saw what was happening. She then asked if Paige had seen and told me to distract him so he wouldn't get upset. However conversation with Paige was quite dull and since I really didn't enjoy talking to him I suggested he go find his wife. Philip and Jessica had finished and Philip was now playing pool, barefoot with an old Bahamian.
Shawn then encouraged us to go with him to Daddy-D's, a regular club packed with large black women. Philip quickly found the comfort of three giant black women that ate more for lunch that day than his entire body weight. He danced and sweated all over them, which means a lot when you consider how much of them there was. Anna and I argued about something stupid outside on the patio. When I went to get Philip to see if he was ready to leave, which he clearly was not Anna had taken off. From the patio I could see her far down the street. I grabbed Philip and we went chasing her. The roads on Harbour Island are somewhat confusing, especially at night. Everything looked the same. We yelled "Anna." repeatedly which only scared the stray chickens. I found a golf cart in someone's driveway and decided to borrow it. It started immediately and Philip jumped in.
"Do you see her?"
"I can't see anything." said Philip
"Why?"
"This stupid windshield." as Philip started to push on the windshield trying to force it open.
"Yes but it's clear."
"It's very hazy to me."
I stopped the cart and opened the windshield for Philip.
We drove to Valentine's the most logical place to meet since that was where our dinghy was tied. While Philip was in the bathroom Anna wandered up the dock. I left the golf cart in front of Valentine's and we returned to the boat.
The next morning at 8:00, all of us severely hungover, Philip said, "Hey Jeff, let's go see if those guys are going fishing." We dinghied over to Ramora Bay and found Brian drinking a Gatorade and smoking a cigarette on the stern of their boat. He looked at us strangely as if seeing someone he couldn't quite place. When we asked him about going fishing his memory jogged he invited us aboard. He told us Chuck was still sleeping. We sat and he offered us Gatorade and told us he was living in Boca Raton. When him and Chuck lived in Boston they started a big tuna fishing club and they used to bring in giants and sell them and split the earnings. Chuck then stumbled out of the sliding glass door of the Bertram, a large gash ran the length of his femur. He looked at us like he'd never seen us. Philip started laughing and said, "Chuck what the hell, you're bleeding all over the place, dude you need to do something about that. What did you do to yourself?"
Chuck looked down, clearly unaware of the large gash and blew it off as if it was nothing.
Brian told Chuck we came over to see if they were going and that we wanted to join them. Philip and I looked at each other confused, we knew we discussed this last night. Chuck grabbed a Gatorade and said yeah we'll leave in a bit. It was clear neither of them intended to go fishing, that they didn't really care for us but we'd pinned them into going anyways.
Philip and I dinghied back to get Anna and a couple joints. We quickly made breakfast and arrived back at the Bertram. Aboard the fishing boat Chuck handled all the fishing lines. He carefully baited the ballyhoo and selected lures to ride in front of each one. He placed two lines on each outrigger and ran four lines off the back. Anna, Philip and I drank Budweiser from their cooler as Chuck worked. We offered to help but only half meaning it because he seemed to know how he wanted things done more than he wanted to explain anything. Chuck and Brian barely spoke to each other the entire day. Philip passed around the joints and everyone smoked except Brian. Chuck talked a lot about Jimmy Buffet. He'd forgotten everything he told us the night before and went through the same old "me and Jim stories." He also talked about his daughter and working for the Buffet's. He seemed happier with the life his daughter had made than his own. Philip caught a Barracuda and Anna a medium sized mahi mahi. Up on the fly bridge I told Brian about plans Philip, Anna and I had made to sail over to Man Island and catch a wild goat. He became instantly appalled. "Why would you want to kill a goat." he asked disgusted.
"To eat it. Why do you fish?"
"Hey Chuck, these guys are planning to kill a goat." he hollered to Chuck.
"What? Is that true? Why would you want to kill a goat" echoed Chuck with the same disgust of Brian.
"For goat meat." answered Philip
Brian shook his head with irritation. It amazed me that men who flew from Boca to Harbour Island, who invested thousands in gasoline, bait, lures, rods and reels and boat to load up a freezer full fish couldn't understand capturing one wild goat. Back at the dock Chuck filleted the mahi and bagged it for us. We thanked the two of them for taking us out and they hoped to never see us again.
That evening Jessica and Paige came over for fish tacos. After dinner we put on a clothes one step up from a bathing suit in hopes of crashing a wedding at the Pink Sands. Earlier in the week we discovered it was "The Cohen" wedding. We stopped with Jessica and Paige in their room and smoked a joint which made Anna and I giddy. Like two teenagers we couldn't stop laughing. At the Pink Sands we were approached by the concierge and never stopped walking but said, "Cohen wedding" as we passed, He directed us to the beach restaurant where the reception was being held. Approaching the wedding we heard the familiar sound of Hava-Nagila. The five of us stood there and watched men in suits and women in evening gowns celebrate. The couple was older, probably in their mid forties. We clearly did not fit in both because of our attire and age. After the song someone announced for everyone to take their seats. Everyone scrambled like a game of musical chairs except for us. We stood their clearly out of place, with every seat occupied until one of the waiters said, "You cannot be here. This is not for you." We quietly left through the back. Outside the Junkanoo band from the night before was waiting to perform. Some of the guys from last night remembered us with their smiles.
Walking the streets of Harbour Island looking for somewhere to party we heard music and saw lights from a large building. As we approached it appeared to be a house. Through the door I saw people dancing. When the five of us approached the doorway a woman came running, probably to invite us inside I thought. Instead, she closed the door after saying "private party."
A few days later, after we did our laundry in the showers at the Ramora Bay Marina the dockmaster locked the showers and gave each registered boat a key. I imagine him going to Chuck and Brian handing them a key and saying, "Sorry to do this but it's because of those kids on the sailboat anchored just over there." Brian and Chuck would nod, knowing exactly what he meant by "those kids."
Harbour Island lies just east of the Eleutheran main land in what would be described as the Central Bahamas. It''s known as a luxury destination and isn't as regularly frequented by cruising sailboats. It likes to promote it's pink sand beaches, which is a result of the extensive coral that skirts the shore being crushed by the waves. While Harbour Island has some cars the main method of transportation is golf carts. The town is cute with lots of flowers but not too cute where it feels sterile. There are beautiful houses and ones that are barely standing, both adding to the character. We arrived in Harbour Island from Little Harbor, about fifty nautical miles north in the Abacos.
On the sail from Little Harbor to Harbour Island the sea was becalmed but the storm clouds weaved around us. Each time I put on my foul weather gear the clouds would clear out of our way. When stripped back to my bathing suit the clouds reappeared, looking dark and ominous. Again I changed back and the clouds disappeared which made me impressed me and I thought, "Is this what they meant by rain proof?" Along the way we hooked a massive Bull Dolphin upwards of 60lbs. It flashed metallic blues and greens each time it leapt from the water. Once aboard we filled its gills with vodka. It sounds strange but through other sailors we learned that this is the best way to subdue a fish that is thrashing about deck and beating you with its tail. Chris then filleted a weeks worth of fish.
The entrance to Harbour Island from the north is named The Devils Backbone and sounds like something from a Pirate's of the Caribbean. Our charts and guides highly recommended using a pilot to navigate The Backbone as it was a combination of dangerous reef and shoals only navigable by eye and experience. Our pilot, John Roberts met us less than a mile from The Backbone. He tied his boat to our stern, climbed aboard and took the helm. He was from Spanish Wells and sounded half British. He smoked Viceroys and worked as a chef aboard a Lobster boat during the season. In the off-season he worked as a pilot and a fishing guide. True to it's name the backbone was sprinkled with coral patches, at times we were less than 10 yards from the crashing waves at the beach and others, as the backbone zagged we were more than 150 yards from shore. On the way to Harbour Island he pointed out Man Island. He said Man Island had wild goats and was a pleasant anchorage. The possibility of capturing a wild goat filled my mind. I'd place it's horns on the bowsprit, I thought.John deposited us at a nice anchorage in between Valentine's Marina and Ramora Bay Marina.
A few days after leaving Hopetown in the Abacos my back went out. Not out, as in, it was partying and having a good time, out, as in severe pain and completely not working. After a few days it cleared up but I needed to get some muscle relaxers at some point in case it happened again. Aboard a boat, in the middle of the ocean, the pharmaceuticals you carry are important, you can't simply run down to the corner CVS. So in Harbour Island I went to the government clinic to visit the doctor. We'd done this before in the Abacos. The Bahamas has great subsidized medicine. A doctor visit is $30 and a prescription somewhere between two to five dollars. Anna and I made an appointment to come back and see the doctor on our way out to dinner. When we arrived we each had two beers in hand to prevent us from buying them at the restaurant where they were more expensive. The doctor asked me about my back and then wrote me a prescription for fifty muscle relaxers. He then counseled us on abusing alcohol. Afterward he said we owed him $100. I told him he was confused that the cost was written on the wall, right above the price for having a baby (free). Eventually, after a little whining he accepted the $30.
Our anchorage off the Ramora Bay Club was perfect for us because the marina had showers that were unlocked which meant we didn't have to shower in the ocean. It also meant we didn't have to shower in the outdoor shower of stranger's vacation homes as we did in Hopetown. We had free, hot freshwater showers only a short dinghy ride away. Chris and Amber had left to go back to the States for a Jimmy Buffet concert and Philip, Anna and I decided to go snorkeling. The sun was set to broil, the most intense it had been yet and we welcomed the heat. On the way back to the boat we stopped to pickup my prescription. At the food stand next door I asked the young Bahamian behind the counter if he had any old food to give us. He gave us a large tray of french fries and invited us out with him. Shawn had a nice smile and told us he was excited to party. We agreed to meet up with him later that night.
Early that evening at the marina, while we waited for Anna to finish showering Philip and I walked up to the bar at Ramora Bay. There we met two older men, Chuck and Brian, both wasted. Brian was nice and strongly resembled Brian Dennehy. He looked like someone who'd been told by his doctor to lay off red meat. Chuck was a bit younger and much louder. Both had Boston accents. Chuck asked us if we liked Jimmy Buffet. We said, yeah of course. Chuck's daughter was the first mate of Buffet's ship, The Continental Drifter, her fiancee the captain. He told us if we got him wasted he'd tell us it was going to be off Andros Island from May 3-10. Philip and I looked at each other confused because he'd just told us exactly where and when to find Jimmy. He then went on to boast about how he'd been fishing with Buffet, got high with him, what a nice guy he was and so forth. He even called him Jim which irritated me. I hate when people try to act like they know celebrities like "oh me and Brad (as in Pitt) were going to meet Angie as in (Angelina)." I find it humiliating to everyone involved.
Chuck and Brian were in Harbour Island to fish on Chuck's 38ft. Bertram. Brian came down yesterday and tomorrow was their first day out but it was clear that tonight was to be spent getting hammered.. Anna who had now found us at the bar asked if we could go fishing with them tomorrow. They happily agreed with Chuck's condition that Philip bring a few joints and then offered to give us a lift into town on the golf cart they'd rented. As we had our dirty clothes, shampoo, soap and loofahs we asked for a few minutes to take everything back to the boat. They assured us they'd be waiting and we agreed to be back in ten minutes.
Ten minutes later the Ramora Bay Marina Bar was empty. We climbed back into the dinghy and tied up about a quarter mile north at Valentine's Marina in the center of town. After two blocks of walking we saw Chuck stumbling towards a restaurant from the other side of the street coughing and hacking heavily.
"Hey Chuck! You left us. Are you okay?" Philip asked.
"Yeah I just had a sneeze attack and had to go outside."
"You mean you just had a vomit attack and had to go puke." Philip retorted as Chuck walked back into the restaurant.
The three of us continued walking in an attempt to find something cheap and fun. We carried with us bottle of vodka stuffed in a sock. On the boat all bottles are stowed in socks so they don't break at sea. Approaching a hill we saw two bicycles coming towards us, as they got closer we saw it was a young couple. I'm unsure if we initiated it or they did but we began chatting with Paige, a blond fair skinned Alabamian and his cheerful new bride Jessica. They lived in California but had just gotten married and were on their honeymoon. We learned they were staying at Ramora Bay and informed them that is where we shower. After a few minutes of discussing what there was two do three golf carts pulled up and Jessica and Paige smiled and said, "Hey Duke!" Two of the men got off the golf carts, took the bikes from Jessica and Paige and insisted they ride in cart. "We're going to Vic-Hums" someone said. Quickly, Anna and I jumped in the back of a cart and Philip in the front seat next to Duke.
"Where are you headed." said Duke as if to say, he didn't know us and certainly didn't invite us to go anywhere with him
"Wherever this carts going, we're going." said Philip
Duke was from Michigan, middle aged, with gray hair and matching stubble. His parents owned a home on Harbour Island and he and his buddies, the guys on the other carts were down for a visit.
"What's in the sock" said Duke
"Vodka." said Philip "You want a pull?"
"A pull?"
"Yeah a pull-a -vodka"
"A pullavodka?
"Yes. Want one?"
"What the hell uh a pullavodka?"
"What do you mean? A pull you know like you put it to your lips and take a pull-a-vodka."
"I have no idea what you're talking about"
"You guys, this joker has no idea what a pull-a-vodka is." Philip said to Anna and I as if Duke wasn't there. We laughed but also hoped not to lose our ride.
"I've heard of a tractor pull, a shot of vodka, but never head of a pull-a-vodka.
"It's just putting it to your lips, it's not that big of deal. I'm just offering you a drink."
"No thanks." mumbled Duke, irritated he'd let us in his cart.
At Vic-Hums we ordered water with lime to go with our sock of vodka. Vic-Hums was a large club and though it wasn't a place tourists would hang out it featured what they claimed was the world's largest coconut behind the bar. At the back was a large dance floor and a basketball court that was fully enclosed except for the roof and surrounded by tables. Philip came out of the bathroom looking startled.
"You okay Philip?" I asked
"Some guy just closed the door on me and put an eight ball in my hand. When I tried to hand it back to him he didn't want to take it."
"What'd you say?"
"Well, I said, it's cool man but I don't really need any of this and then handed it back to him."
Outside we ran into the skinny Bahamian with little teeth who sold Philip pot the day before. He gave us half his blunt and left. Back inside for more water someone said "everybody come outside, quick."
What we couldn't hear from inside was a marching Junkannoo band. Twenty or so Bahamians dressed in yellow feathers and white t-shirts marched down the street with tubas, trombones, cow bells, maracas and every drum you could imagine, even giant oil drums converted to drums. They danced and shook violently, to the beat of Junkannoo, a mixture of Caribbean and African rhythms. Philip, Anna and I joined the band. We spilled our drinks as we danced with them in the street and played on their drums. When the band moved on down the road everyone climbed back on the carts and headed to Gusty's.
Gusty's was a small bar but what was unique about it was the floor inside was entirely sand. The bar was on a hill which allowed the patio off the back some elevation and a nice clear view of the sea. I drank and talked to Paige and Duke's friends. There we met up with Shawn who was happy to see us. Anna danced with Shawn and Jessica until Philip started dancing with Jessica. What was initially innocent hey we're having fun dancing quickly morphed into Philip and Jessica having sex with their clothes on. Anna grabbed my arm and asked me if i saw what was happening. She then asked if Paige had seen and told me to distract him so he wouldn't get upset. However conversation with Paige was quite dull and since I really didn't enjoy talking to him I suggested he go find his wife. Philip and Jessica had finished and Philip was now playing pool, barefoot with an old Bahamian.
Shawn then encouraged us to go with him to Daddy-D's, a regular club packed with large black women. Philip quickly found the comfort of three giant black women that ate more for lunch that day than his entire body weight. He danced and sweated all over them, which means a lot when you consider how much of them there was. Anna and I argued about something stupid outside on the patio. When I went to get Philip to see if he was ready to leave, which he clearly was not Anna had taken off. From the patio I could see her far down the street. I grabbed Philip and we went chasing her. The roads on Harbour Island are somewhat confusing, especially at night. Everything looked the same. We yelled "Anna." repeatedly which only scared the stray chickens. I found a golf cart in someone's driveway and decided to borrow it. It started immediately and Philip jumped in.
"Do you see her?"
"I can't see anything." said Philip
"Why?"
"This stupid windshield." as Philip started to push on the windshield trying to force it open.
"Yes but it's clear."
"It's very hazy to me."
I stopped the cart and opened the windshield for Philip.
We drove to Valentine's the most logical place to meet since that was where our dinghy was tied. While Philip was in the bathroom Anna wandered up the dock. I left the golf cart in front of Valentine's and we returned to the boat.
The next morning at 8:00, all of us severely hungover, Philip said, "Hey Jeff, let's go see if those guys are going fishing." We dinghied over to Ramora Bay and found Brian drinking a Gatorade and smoking a cigarette on the stern of their boat. He looked at us strangely as if seeing someone he couldn't quite place. When we asked him about going fishing his memory jogged he invited us aboard. He told us Chuck was still sleeping. We sat and he offered us Gatorade and told us he was living in Boca Raton. When him and Chuck lived in Boston they started a big tuna fishing club and they used to bring in giants and sell them and split the earnings. Chuck then stumbled out of the sliding glass door of the Bertram, a large gash ran the length of his femur. He looked at us like he'd never seen us. Philip started laughing and said, "Chuck what the hell, you're bleeding all over the place, dude you need to do something about that. What did you do to yourself?"
Chuck looked down, clearly unaware of the large gash and blew it off as if it was nothing.
Brian told Chuck we came over to see if they were going and that we wanted to join them. Philip and I looked at each other confused, we knew we discussed this last night. Chuck grabbed a Gatorade and said yeah we'll leave in a bit. It was clear neither of them intended to go fishing, that they didn't really care for us but we'd pinned them into going anyways.
Philip and I dinghied back to get Anna and a couple joints. We quickly made breakfast and arrived back at the Bertram. Aboard the fishing boat Chuck handled all the fishing lines. He carefully baited the ballyhoo and selected lures to ride in front of each one. He placed two lines on each outrigger and ran four lines off the back. Anna, Philip and I drank Budweiser from their cooler as Chuck worked. We offered to help but only half meaning it because he seemed to know how he wanted things done more than he wanted to explain anything. Chuck and Brian barely spoke to each other the entire day. Philip passed around the joints and everyone smoked except Brian. Chuck talked a lot about Jimmy Buffet. He'd forgotten everything he told us the night before and went through the same old "me and Jim stories." He also talked about his daughter and working for the Buffet's. He seemed happier with the life his daughter had made than his own. Philip caught a Barracuda and Anna a medium sized mahi mahi. Up on the fly bridge I told Brian about plans Philip, Anna and I had made to sail over to Man Island and catch a wild goat. He became instantly appalled. "Why would you want to kill a goat." he asked disgusted.
"To eat it. Why do you fish?"
"Hey Chuck, these guys are planning to kill a goat." he hollered to Chuck.
"What? Is that true? Why would you want to kill a goat" echoed Chuck with the same disgust of Brian.
"For goat meat." answered Philip
Brian shook his head with irritation. It amazed me that men who flew from Boca to Harbour Island, who invested thousands in gasoline, bait, lures, rods and reels and boat to load up a freezer full fish couldn't understand capturing one wild goat. Back at the dock Chuck filleted the mahi and bagged it for us. We thanked the two of them for taking us out and they hoped to never see us again.
That evening Jessica and Paige came over for fish tacos. After dinner we put on a clothes one step up from a bathing suit in hopes of crashing a wedding at the Pink Sands. Earlier in the week we discovered it was "The Cohen" wedding. We stopped with Jessica and Paige in their room and smoked a joint which made Anna and I giddy. Like two teenagers we couldn't stop laughing. At the Pink Sands we were approached by the concierge and never stopped walking but said, "Cohen wedding" as we passed, He directed us to the beach restaurant where the reception was being held. Approaching the wedding we heard the familiar sound of Hava-Nagila. The five of us stood there and watched men in suits and women in evening gowns celebrate. The couple was older, probably in their mid forties. We clearly did not fit in both because of our attire and age. After the song someone announced for everyone to take their seats. Everyone scrambled like a game of musical chairs except for us. We stood their clearly out of place, with every seat occupied until one of the waiters said, "You cannot be here. This is not for you." We quietly left through the back. Outside the Junkanoo band from the night before was waiting to perform. Some of the guys from last night remembered us with their smiles.
Walking the streets of Harbour Island looking for somewhere to party we heard music and saw lights from a large building. As we approached it appeared to be a house. Through the door I saw people dancing. When the five of us approached the doorway a woman came running, probably to invite us inside I thought. Instead, she closed the door after saying "private party."
A few days later, after we did our laundry in the showers at the Ramora Bay Marina the dockmaster locked the showers and gave each registered boat a key. I imagine him going to Chuck and Brian handing them a key and saying, "Sorry to do this but it's because of those kids on the sailboat anchored just over there." Brian and Chuck would nod, knowing exactly what he meant by "those kids."
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Surviving on Bread and Chicken
From the harbor in Hopetown the tops of Palm trees look like Dandelions. I imagine the fronds coming off and scattering across the island. A rooster, with his clock set on Greenwich time cock-a-doodles hours to early.
Chris wanted to bake bread. He tried in Tallahassee before we left. Amber, Chris, Anna and I stood in the kitchen, we all held a broken piece in our hand, our mouths chewing looking at each other waiting for someone to react. Eventually someone decided it was terrible which allowed the rest of us to agree. Before we left Ft. Lauderdale we stocked up on just-add-water brownies, muffins and biscuits. Chris tried a few more times to make bread but the problem with bread is it requires attention. Let it rise too long, don't kneed it enough you're going to have bad bread. Since watching bread rise isn't one of Chris's strengths, it never came out right. So for the first month on board Desdemona we settled for generic label white bread. Low in nutritional value, nearly tasteless and filled with preservatives that are great aboard the humid environment of a sailboat.
When Philip arrived he'd brought with him a handheld compass, a magnesium strip for starting fires, a poncho and a two tape set narrated by Burt Reynolds titled "Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook." The front cover read, "HOW TO: Escape from quicksand, Wrestle an Alligator, Break down a door, Land a plane...." The tapes featured Burt explaining how to survive a bear attack, a shark attack, how to leap from a motorcycle to a car and how to escape from killer bees. When anyone questioned Philip on why this was important information his response was "Ya never know bro. Anything could happen." We also had on board two machetes and a hatchet. Obviously what we thought we were going to experience was misaligned with reality. Bahamian life and cultures, because of it's proximity to America, is basically American culture. While they fish and eat conch, they buy their chicken from Tyson.
The streets and homes of Hopetown are what guidebooks would describe as quaint. The houses have an artificially sweet feel and feature annoying names like Sanddollar or Crows Nest written on planks of driftwood painted pastel pink, green or blue. The only redeeming feature are the five or six stray chickens that reside in the town. Walking down a back street in Hopetown the unmistakable smell of cinnamon alerted us to the bakery. It was coming from a grocery store named Vernon's. As we entered the store just past the cashier was a wall of freshly baked breads, pastries and pies. I picked up a banana bread and put it back after noticing it was $12. I walked around and noticed brie and asparagus which I hadn't seen since leaving the States. Chris purchased a baguette. Next to the cash register was a door to Vernon's bakery. Were the store more sophisticated the door would read employee only but since it didn't the four of us wandered into the bakery. Here we found an old frail man with the body language and voice of an effeminate Droopy. He seemed like he'd be easy to offend and you could picture him saying, "oh my." His hair was thin and white matching the apron he wore. He introduced himself as Vernon. Philip made a comment about the irony of the store also being named Vernon. He informed us it was his store and he was the baker. Chris explained how he'd been trying to make bread but that it wasn't working out so well. Chris asked if it be possible for him to teach us and Vernon agreed. He told us he starts baking at 7:000 am and we were welcome to join him.
The four of us walked down the street laughing about our bread baking lesson and enjoying the baguette Chris bought. At the end of the street were two benches along the water that overlooked the harbor entrance. It was low tide and the darker blue narrow strip of the channel contrasted starkly with the light green of the shoals and shallows that surrounded it. Boats entering the harbor ignored the No Wake sign. Anna had a photo shoot with a stray cat. We could see a sailboat aground across the bay, laying on it's side as if it was just taking a short nap.
On the way back to the boat, in front of the church near Vernon's grocery a group of stray chickens, a rooster, a large hen and two adolescents pecked at the ground. They clucked and scratched all the while looking really stupid, hardly aware of our presence. I picked up a rock expecting an easy kill but not looking forward to the work that would ensue i.e. feathers, innards and blood. Most people are unaware but the Bahamian Chicken is the most intelligent creature in all of the Bahamas. My target chicken, the large female, with spider-man like awareness sensed the impending danger and just as the rock was about to pummel it's stupid bird head it quickly side-stepped the rock. Then in a split second all the chickens made a permanent imprint of what I looked like, smelled like and sounded like and quickly scattered clucking with fear. Okay, well, maybe next time, I thought.
Vernon had been baking for over 45 years. His favorite thing to make was pie and throughout the day several people stopped by to find out when the pies would be done. Vernon was the minister at the church where I tried to murder the chickens. It was a Methodist church which was good because he didn't seem the fire and brimstone type. He told us he liked to start all his sermons off with a joke. Vernon was nice but I couldn't imagine him trying to make a joke, rather I couldn't imagine anyone laughing. Vernon liked to talk about politics. After his neighbor across the street, a black Bahamian who ran a fast food joint popped his head in he told me we have different opinions but we like to chat and talk issues. Whatever his politics it was clear he valued rules. When a man walked out a door labeled "entrance" he got huffy and started to whine about the way things are supposed to be done. Vernon pulled out several trays of cinnamon buns that were ready to be glazed. When he popped over into the market for a second we each tried the glaze on our fingers. Anna noticed that it tasted like he added lime to it. He'd made a dozen for us and invited us to enjoy them.We did. After they cooled he asked for help packing them up.
When Philip, Anna and I were walking by Vernon's church the chickens were back. A Bahamian woman had told us how they use to trap chickens on Mayaguana as a child. Philip and I asked Vernon if we could borrow a milk crate and some string while Anna kept an eye on our prey. A Bahamian woman at the snack shop across from Vernon's gave us some bread to use as bait. "Why you want to catch those chickens anyways," she asked? "Because they're made out of chicken." Philip answered. We set a trap on the sidewalk to the church, breadcrumbs leading to the crate which was propped up with a small stick attached to the string.. Philip waited on the other end of the string while I spooked the chickens towards Philip. Locals and tourist walked by as if we didn't exist. The chickens immediately remembered me and headed towards Philip clucking at a higher tempo than before. One of the adolescent chickens pecked at the bread almost completely underneath the trap. Eventually the large female pecked her way underneath the milk crate and as Philip pulled the string the chickens outwitted us again, escaping while the trap fells backwards.
We tried two more times to catch the Hopetown chickens. On Philip's birthday, our final hunt, I made contact with one when I tried to swat it with a piece of wood but lost it in the brush. Eventually the chickens knew us so well they'd move into the brush before we could even get them in sight. We'd just here them racing down the street, their high tempo clucking that says, "I am afraid bok bok bok someone is after me bok bok bok." We'd I ordered the cake from Vernon for Philip's birthday he like he'd never seen me before. I tried to tell him, "It's for Philip, it's his birthday, you remember Philip?" He mumbled something and left. The cake was dry but Philip ate it anyway.
After Hopetown we wouldn't see a grocery store until we reached Eluethera, more than a week away. Before we left we stocked up on Tyson chicken leg quarters and five loaves of bread.
Chris wanted to bake bread. He tried in Tallahassee before we left. Amber, Chris, Anna and I stood in the kitchen, we all held a broken piece in our hand, our mouths chewing looking at each other waiting for someone to react. Eventually someone decided it was terrible which allowed the rest of us to agree. Before we left Ft. Lauderdale we stocked up on just-add-water brownies, muffins and biscuits. Chris tried a few more times to make bread but the problem with bread is it requires attention. Let it rise too long, don't kneed it enough you're going to have bad bread. Since watching bread rise isn't one of Chris's strengths, it never came out right. So for the first month on board Desdemona we settled for generic label white bread. Low in nutritional value, nearly tasteless and filled with preservatives that are great aboard the humid environment of a sailboat.
When Philip arrived he'd brought with him a handheld compass, a magnesium strip for starting fires, a poncho and a two tape set narrated by Burt Reynolds titled "Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook." The front cover read, "HOW TO: Escape from quicksand, Wrestle an Alligator, Break down a door, Land a plane...." The tapes featured Burt explaining how to survive a bear attack, a shark attack, how to leap from a motorcycle to a car and how to escape from killer bees. When anyone questioned Philip on why this was important information his response was "Ya never know bro. Anything could happen." We also had on board two machetes and a hatchet. Obviously what we thought we were going to experience was misaligned with reality. Bahamian life and cultures, because of it's proximity to America, is basically American culture. While they fish and eat conch, they buy their chicken from Tyson.
The streets and homes of Hopetown are what guidebooks would describe as quaint. The houses have an artificially sweet feel and feature annoying names like Sanddollar or Crows Nest written on planks of driftwood painted pastel pink, green or blue. The only redeeming feature are the five or six stray chickens that reside in the town. Walking down a back street in Hopetown the unmistakable smell of cinnamon alerted us to the bakery. It was coming from a grocery store named Vernon's. As we entered the store just past the cashier was a wall of freshly baked breads, pastries and pies. I picked up a banana bread and put it back after noticing it was $12. I walked around and noticed brie and asparagus which I hadn't seen since leaving the States. Chris purchased a baguette. Next to the cash register was a door to Vernon's bakery. Were the store more sophisticated the door would read employee only but since it didn't the four of us wandered into the bakery. Here we found an old frail man with the body language and voice of an effeminate Droopy. He seemed like he'd be easy to offend and you could picture him saying, "oh my." His hair was thin and white matching the apron he wore. He introduced himself as Vernon. Philip made a comment about the irony of the store also being named Vernon. He informed us it was his store and he was the baker. Chris explained how he'd been trying to make bread but that it wasn't working out so well. Chris asked if it be possible for him to teach us and Vernon agreed. He told us he starts baking at 7:000 am and we were welcome to join him.
The four of us walked down the street laughing about our bread baking lesson and enjoying the baguette Chris bought. At the end of the street were two benches along the water that overlooked the harbor entrance. It was low tide and the darker blue narrow strip of the channel contrasted starkly with the light green of the shoals and shallows that surrounded it. Boats entering the harbor ignored the No Wake sign. Anna had a photo shoot with a stray cat. We could see a sailboat aground across the bay, laying on it's side as if it was just taking a short nap.
On the way back to the boat, in front of the church near Vernon's grocery a group of stray chickens, a rooster, a large hen and two adolescents pecked at the ground. They clucked and scratched all the while looking really stupid, hardly aware of our presence. I picked up a rock expecting an easy kill but not looking forward to the work that would ensue i.e. feathers, innards and blood. Most people are unaware but the Bahamian Chicken is the most intelligent creature in all of the Bahamas. My target chicken, the large female, with spider-man like awareness sensed the impending danger and just as the rock was about to pummel it's stupid bird head it quickly side-stepped the rock. Then in a split second all the chickens made a permanent imprint of what I looked like, smelled like and sounded like and quickly scattered clucking with fear. Okay, well, maybe next time, I thought.
Vernon had been baking for over 45 years. His favorite thing to make was pie and throughout the day several people stopped by to find out when the pies would be done. Vernon was the minister at the church where I tried to murder the chickens. It was a Methodist church which was good because he didn't seem the fire and brimstone type. He told us he liked to start all his sermons off with a joke. Vernon was nice but I couldn't imagine him trying to make a joke, rather I couldn't imagine anyone laughing. Vernon liked to talk about politics. After his neighbor across the street, a black Bahamian who ran a fast food joint popped his head in he told me we have different opinions but we like to chat and talk issues. Whatever his politics it was clear he valued rules. When a man walked out a door labeled "entrance" he got huffy and started to whine about the way things are supposed to be done. Vernon pulled out several trays of cinnamon buns that were ready to be glazed. When he popped over into the market for a second we each tried the glaze on our fingers. Anna noticed that it tasted like he added lime to it. He'd made a dozen for us and invited us to enjoy them.We did. After they cooled he asked for help packing them up.
When Philip, Anna and I were walking by Vernon's church the chickens were back. A Bahamian woman had told us how they use to trap chickens on Mayaguana as a child. Philip and I asked Vernon if we could borrow a milk crate and some string while Anna kept an eye on our prey. A Bahamian woman at the snack shop across from Vernon's gave us some bread to use as bait. "Why you want to catch those chickens anyways," she asked? "Because they're made out of chicken." Philip answered. We set a trap on the sidewalk to the church, breadcrumbs leading to the crate which was propped up with a small stick attached to the string.. Philip waited on the other end of the string while I spooked the chickens towards Philip. Locals and tourist walked by as if we didn't exist. The chickens immediately remembered me and headed towards Philip clucking at a higher tempo than before. One of the adolescent chickens pecked at the bread almost completely underneath the trap. Eventually the large female pecked her way underneath the milk crate and as Philip pulled the string the chickens outwitted us again, escaping while the trap fells backwards.
We tried two more times to catch the Hopetown chickens. On Philip's birthday, our final hunt, I made contact with one when I tried to swat it with a piece of wood but lost it in the brush. Eventually the chickens knew us so well they'd move into the brush before we could even get them in sight. We'd just here them racing down the street, their high tempo clucking that says, "I am afraid bok bok bok someone is after me bok bok bok." We'd I ordered the cake from Vernon for Philip's birthday he like he'd never seen me before. I tried to tell him, "It's for Philip, it's his birthday, you remember Philip?" He mumbled something and left. The cake was dry but Philip ate it anyway.
After Hopetown we wouldn't see a grocery store until we reached Eluethera, more than a week away. Before we left we stocked up on Tyson chicken leg quarters and five loaves of bread.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Knowing Where You Are
I'm not sure why a horizontally growing palm tree evokes the idea of paradise more than a normal upright palm tree but it does. It's just like teriyaki. Nobody knows what teriyaki really is or where it comes from but everybody eats it. Which is why I assume it's a terayaki thing, something I wasn't meant to understand, when the man at the Supermercado in the Dominican Republic gives me three pieces of hard candy instead of my change. I tilt my head down towards my hand and walk out the door reminding myself it's not good to think too much about these type of things like why horseback riding isn't just called horse riding which is what we did the next day in the mountains.
At our first bar in Aruba the bartender served me what I assumed to be a free sample of a beer in a green bottle that read "Balashi." It was in a bottle of what a woman would describe as "cute", because it's exactly the same as a regular beer bottle but half the size which makes me wonder why no one thinks midgets are cute. I ordered a Polar next and it came in the same 8oz bottle. Even Budweiser had been shrunk which seemed very un-American. We don't make things smaller, I thought. Clearly there was a mistake. I then asked the waiter if perhaps these beers were for children and he informed me that all beer in Aruba is this size. "Anything bigger would get warm before you could drink it." At first I thought this response funny but then it simply started to piss me off. Their Cokes were the same size. I knew I wasn't going to let this go with the unacceptable answer I received. Staring at this baby bottle of beer was especially annoying as the beer in DR was served in 40oz bottles. Meaning, five beers in Aruba is equal to one Dominican beer. At the next five bars I asked why the beer here was so small and they all echoed the first answer I received about it getting warm. It was as if every citizen had been given beer propaganda. What I've discovered is nobody knows why the beer is smaller, it just is or at least if they know they're not telling.
I like to think my horse, Indecent Proposal and I had at least one of the same genes. Whenever Anna and I go for a walk or a hike I subconsciously prevent her from getting ahead of me, for some reason my brain thinks that I have to be ahead. She'd complain and I'd wait for her but soon I'd be thirty yards up ahead. Indecent Proposal had the same issue, whenever she sensed any other horse close to overtaking her she'd giddy giddy giddy up on ahead. It's nice to think we have something in common, that if our brains were laid out on a surgical table and examined a scientist could pin point the problem we have, "See it's right there, that frayed nerve, it's what causes them to think they're being left behind." But it's probably that Indecent Proposal just didn't care to stare at other horse's asses.
Last night I watched an old documentary narrated by smarmy Richard Dreyfus called The Search for Longitutde. The reason they were searching was before the hero of the documentary, John Harrison invented a marine chronometer, ships were unable to determine their east to west location (longitude). And until his invention which is really just a watch that can survive the conditions of ocean travel no one really knew where they were exactly. The other scientists of the 1700's including Newton believed the answer to the problem was in astronomy, that they could map certain stars and the angle from which they appeared to a mariner would determine the location of the ship. Everyone agreed that if you knew the time you could determine longitude it was just that no one believed a timekeeper could be built that would remain precise during ocean travel. Harrison, after a lifetime of working on a solution finally was able to build a watch that worked at sea.
Later when I'm lying in bed, awake, the waves slapping the side of the boat as it dances back and forth with the wind I keep repeating the line "Knowing where you are is simply a matter of knowing the time." As the waves have their way with the boat I'm reassured by knowing this because whatever it means it's true and it reminds me of being five years old and telling my mom with absolute confidence, "one million times zero equals zero." I reach my hand up to grab the phone, look at the the time, it was 1:17 in the morning. Then I turned to Anna who is sleeping and say, "one million time zero equals zero."
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Peed on her face
If you've ever tried to pee on your lovers foot while they stand on one leg, the other in the air hovering over a toilet, while trying not to pee on anything else then you've probably spent some time in the ocean. Playing at Tahiti Beach on Elbow Cay, Chris and Anna both stepped on something sharp that left stinging brown bits in their feet. This is when Anna, with tears in the pockets of her eyes said, "Will you pee on me? And I look her in the eyes and in my best soap opera actor impression say, "Anna, I will pee on your foot." Sometimes you need someone to pee on your foot.
Which is why I found it beautiful when I saw the old Colombian couple sitting in Starbucks enjoying something I heard described as "frapalicious," a drink more closely resembling a milkshake than coffee; and as they leaned over the small cafe table, the woman looked into the eyes of the man she loves as he popped pimples on his darling's face. I wondered if she ever said, "pis en mi pie mi amor" and surely he'd pee on her foot to relieve her pain.
Or maybe it's less about love and more like the produce farmers in the Dominican Republic. The farmers harvest beautiful organic pineapples, avocados, carrots and cucumbers but rather than setup a small stand they take to the road. They drive around with megaphones, a PA system attached to the roof of their pickups, the back of which is loaded with produce and cruise up and down the streets of the town announcing, "Hermosa piña. Aguacate Delicious. Hortalizas frescas en la actualidad." In otherwords, we really need to sell some vegetables so please come buy some because they are delicious. And though the natural result of growing vegetables is not to drive around like it's wartime, trying to spread propaganda. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do. And as I'm adding the period to that last sentence I think that sounds a lot like war even though it's not, it's just trying to unload some avocados and driving around blasting the streets with a loudspeaker is the best they've come up with.
In the case of the sea biscuit Anna stepped on it was war, when suddenly her foot came crashing through the water and the only way it had to defend itself was releasing hundreds of little brown painful spines into her foot. While my the chemical reaction of my urine neutralized the stinging it was the spines still in her foot that posed the threat of infection and required removal. I sat poking at her foot with a small sewing needle trying to remove the spines amused by the irony of digging out small needles with larger needles. When a Bahamian woman suggested we use hot water and baking soda, that if we did the spines would fall right out; I thought anything is better than digging holes in my girlfriend's foot. Ideas like this surprise you when they work, the ones that sound crazy, like driving around trying to sell vegetables over a PA system.
It was yesterday when I came across another way to get the pain out, a totally hot water and baking soda, yelling into a PA system to sell veggies kind of way. When Anna picked up her bag to throw it in the back of the car she swung it around and 1.5 liter of vodka she had in it punched her in the face. Tears started to drip down her cheeks and since it was raining outside I thought of her face as a windshield. When I said, "Usually vodka only knocks you out when you drink it." and she started to laugh and all the warm swelling she was feeling in her jaw diminished. And she said to me, "I love you because you make me laugh when I'm upset." and I realize I've just peed on her face. I start to think of all the times she's peed on me. All the times we've peed on each other and I wonder if this is what they mean when they say that love is chemical.
Which is why I found it beautiful when I saw the old Colombian couple sitting in Starbucks enjoying something I heard described as "frapalicious," a drink more closely resembling a milkshake than coffee; and as they leaned over the small cafe table, the woman looked into the eyes of the man she loves as he popped pimples on his darling's face. I wondered if she ever said, "pis en mi pie mi amor" and surely he'd pee on her foot to relieve her pain.
Or maybe it's less about love and more like the produce farmers in the Dominican Republic. The farmers harvest beautiful organic pineapples, avocados, carrots and cucumbers but rather than setup a small stand they take to the road. They drive around with megaphones, a PA system attached to the roof of their pickups, the back of which is loaded with produce and cruise up and down the streets of the town announcing, "Hermosa piña. Aguacate Delicious. Hortalizas frescas en la actualidad." In otherwords, we really need to sell some vegetables so please come buy some because they are delicious. And though the natural result of growing vegetables is not to drive around like it's wartime, trying to spread propaganda. But sometimes you have to do what you have to do. And as I'm adding the period to that last sentence I think that sounds a lot like war even though it's not, it's just trying to unload some avocados and driving around blasting the streets with a loudspeaker is the best they've come up with.
In the case of the sea biscuit Anna stepped on it was war, when suddenly her foot came crashing through the water and the only way it had to defend itself was releasing hundreds of little brown painful spines into her foot. While my the chemical reaction of my urine neutralized the stinging it was the spines still in her foot that posed the threat of infection and required removal. I sat poking at her foot with a small sewing needle trying to remove the spines amused by the irony of digging out small needles with larger needles. When a Bahamian woman suggested we use hot water and baking soda, that if we did the spines would fall right out; I thought anything is better than digging holes in my girlfriend's foot. Ideas like this surprise you when they work, the ones that sound crazy, like driving around trying to sell vegetables over a PA system.
It was yesterday when I came across another way to get the pain out, a totally hot water and baking soda, yelling into a PA system to sell veggies kind of way. When Anna picked up her bag to throw it in the back of the car she swung it around and 1.5 liter of vodka she had in it punched her in the face. Tears started to drip down her cheeks and since it was raining outside I thought of her face as a windshield. When I said, "Usually vodka only knocks you out when you drink it." and she started to laugh and all the warm swelling she was feeling in her jaw diminished. And she said to me, "I love you because you make me laugh when I'm upset." and I realize I've just peed on her face. I start to think of all the times she's peed on me. All the times we've peed on each other and I wonder if this is what they mean when they say that love is chemical.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Bill Gates
In Aruba the entrance to the Renaissance Marina a small red helicopter sits on a jetty waiting to take tourist on island tours. The rotors slowly spinning, the engine at idle and everyone can sense what is about to happen. On the opposite side of the entrance the cruiseships loaded with passengers from America climb off the boat to attack the shops that line the waterfront. Each morning when we go to shore and pass the helicopter on one side and the cruiseships on the other I can't help but think of Bill Gates.
We were in Hopetown, it was April and Anna spent the morning doing her taxes. Feeling productive, we decided to go for a walk, hoping to see the rest of Elbow Cay. On the way out of town a man in a flatbed truck pulled over and gave us a ride out of town. The truck pulled into a hardware store and we hopped out. On the ride we saw a couple hand painted signs in the shape of an ice cream cone with the words "Sugar Shack." painted in script. We decided to walk back towards the signs and see where they'd take us. Following the signs we turned off the main road and walked a few hundred yards. I began to smell basil and rosemary. On the right hand side of the road was a driveway where a golf cart was parked with two men in it. Walking past we waved and admired the garden in the yard where they sat. The size of three or four basketball courts, it was filled with greens, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers and more herbs than I can remember. In front of each group of plants was a marker that was finely printed that said, "I am Mexican Parsley" or "I am cabbage." The garden was designed not in the familiar rows you'd expect but in a way much more beautiful, the way Disney would design a garden, incorporating, rocks, arbors, shells, with twists and curves along the path. I admired the cayenne peppers dancing in the breeze, their smooth glossy skin shimmered in the sun making them look deceptively juicy and sweet and not my-mouth-is-a-volcano hot. Just past the garden was a small liquor store. Anna and I went in and purchased two Sands Light and wandered back to the garden out of curiosity.
The two men waved us over to their golf cart and introduced themselves. Marcel was tan and alcoholic skinny, with large ears and eyes. He said he just turned 83. His Dick Van Dyke's smile combined with the name Marcel made him look French. He spoke with the wild enthusiasm of someone working a crowd, like he expected you to leave was trying to tell you everything he could before that happened. He leaned in when he told stories like he was about to reveal a big secret which made me think he had a lot of them, stories, not secrets. He introduced Bill Gates, the man sitting next to him as Crocodile Dundee. Billy Gates was 46, blond and could have passed for Paul Hogan in a dark room. He wore his hair back in a ponytail and owned a construction company on Elbow Cay. The garden was Billy's and the house behind which it sat his girlfriend's. She'd left that morning for New York where she worked coordinating fashion shows. As the four of us drank and smoked on the golfcart and tried to get to know each other Marcel would sidetrack the conversation by announcing one of Billy's gifts.
"What's your name again?" asked Marcel for the third time.
"Jeff."
"Jeff, do you know this, I am 71 years old and this is my good friend the Crocodile Dundee? Like I told you this is Crocodile Dundee, you know the movie that this here is him, right here in the flesh." He goes right out there in the blue water and man I'll tell you...."and then he'd pause as if he'd suddenly run out of batteries and then suddenly start back up..."I'll tell you he goes right out and sees a shark he wrestles it."
"I thought you just turned 83?" Anna said.
Marcel said, "No I am 71, just turned 71."
Billy was a free diving spearfisherman and dealt with sharks not by retreating but by being the aggressor and spearing them too. "I just see the sharks and I don't like to run so I go for them with my spear." echoed Billy. "Tiger sharks, bull sharks it doesn't matter, you see them all here in the Bahamas." Marcel satisfied to be the friend of such a man put on a smile so big it doesn't fit his head and nods.
Billy encourages us to walk through the garden and pick anything we like and leaves to grab a few plastic bags.
"What's your name?" Marcel asks pointing his finger at me like a gun and looking at me with one eye shut.
"Jeff"
"Jeff, you don't have to worry about me. I am as harmless as an unborn kitten. Do you know I used to build fixed and rotor wing aircraft? I even built myself a gyrocopter but crashed it in the ocean."
"Really?
He held up his hand and said, "Honest, to god. I am not a liar and would never tolerate myself if I were. And I'll tell you something else. What's your name?
"Jeff"
"Jeff, me and Billy have been building a cruise ship, it's almost done too, we've been building it for two years."
"Really?"
"If I'm lying you can cut my lips off."
Billy returned and took us on a tour through his garden. As we walked he'd stop and hold each plant and say, "Do you like dill?" and cut large swaths of it. Eggplants, fennel, marjoram, spinach, tomatoes, Billy gave us some of everything. As he was taking us through the garden a neighbor came over and asked Billy for a few tomatoes. He gladly obliged. The mangoes, guavas and bananas were not ripe but he loaded us up with vegetables and herbs.
Back on the golf cart Billy suggested we drive up to the liquor store (literally the next property over) and refill on beer. Anna and I suggested we go see their cruise ship. Marcel excitedly agreed as long as we didn't reveal it's whereabouts to anyone. One the way over Marcel told us he'd just turned 73 and asked my name twice more.
The cruisehip they appropriately named Driftwood lay resting in Marcel's backyard in front of an old green lazyboy recliner. They found a twenty two foot fiberglass hull at a dump and built a small cabin atop. The holes in the hull had been patched and remained unpainted. The cabin was constructed of home materials rather than boat materials making it look like a strange amalgamation of land and sea. Accessed with a screen door the interior smelled of filth and urine. It contained one bed and a couple of cast iron pots. Marcel excitedly showed us his double sinks which were actually just two five gallon buckets filled with water. Marcel told us he'd been living in Driftwood to get away from his Haitian wife, whom he hated and referred to as a witch.
Marcel was now so intoxicated he literally could not walk without holding on to the side of his boat. We sat down, Billy in the recliner and Marcel told us stories about God. I couldn't determine if he liked God or not but whatever it was he was passionate about and grumbled, now barely coherent. Although he was still able to recite the alphabet backwards for us with incredible speed and accuracy. This pleased him and he sat smiling at his boat. Driftwood was his oasis in his backyard, the vessel that would allow him to sail away, maybe, to some place without his Haitian wife, a place where he was much younger than 71, 73 or 83. A small black girl no older than 12 brought him a coke and he introduced her as his daughter. He asked us to admire how beautiful she was which made her blush. I was uncertain if she was more embarrassed by her dad or by what he was saying.
I asked Marcel about his gyrocopter and he perked up, his eyes went from shut to slightly open and a smile came over him. Billy said, Marcel had built a small helicopter, it took him years, maybe ten to put together. It had a pontoon that allowed him to land on the water around Elbow Cay. One day he'd unknowingly landed it on a conch shell which punctured one of the pontoons and caused it to fill with water. Now off balance and weighted with hundreds of pounds of water Marcel took to air and shortly after crashed. The copter was destroyed but Marcel walked away entirely unscathed.
Billy suggested we go back to his girlfriend's house and have some wine. Marcel drunk, now settled into a state of grumpiness that allowed us to excuse ourselves without inviting him back to Billy's place. "He'll be better off here where he can pass out with his cruise ship."
Billy's girlfriend, Joann had a beautiful house, the garage covered with jasmine and the house with red, white and orange bougainvillea. Billy told us how he'd built the house with his ex-wife and then sold it to the woman who became his girlfriend. Which made us laugh and wonder if it was Joann or the house that was so special to him. We sat on the porch and drank wine as Billy told us about how much he loved Joann, how wonderful she was and how much he'd love for us to meet her. The way he spoke about love was unusual, not because he was slurring, but because he spoke about it casually and comfortably. More like a poet than the owner of a construction company. Still it was difficult to imagine a New York, fashion show producer with a Bahamian Crocodile Dundee.
When a golf cart pulled into the driveway, he immediately recognized it as his mom's. She'd come to berate him for being drunk and to request a special plant from Billy's garden. A friend of hers was going back to the States and their friend had cancer. The cancer wasn't responding to treatment and his mom new one Billy's plants as a remedy to all ailments. It's leaves were to be made into a tea for the woman. Billy suggested a few ways they might hide it to get it through customs like putting it inside of an empty shampoo bottle.
Anna and I called Philip, Amber and Chris on the VHF to invite them over to Billy's house. They came over with vodka and ate the cookies Joann left for Billy. Billy offered to get us pot from his dealer Francis. Philip informed Billy that Francis was out, as Philip had already tried buying from Francis. Billy called Francis and kept getting disconnected. Frustrated, Billy decided it was a good idea to just go over to Francis's house and talk to him in person so the six of us climbed on Billy's golf cart. Francis met Billy in the driveway and insisted that he go home. Billy told him what he wanted and this infuriated Francis. Francis told Billy he was too drunk, too drunk to even buy pot. Slightly agitated Billy turned the golf cart around and drove us back to Hopetown to our boat where we said goodnight and thanked him for the vegetables.
A few days later when Anna and I found ourselves at a beach restaurant down the road from Billy's house we asked the bartenders if they knew our friends Billy and Marcel. We told them about drinking with Billy about the cruiseship and asked them if Marcel really crashed his gyrocopter. They confirmed the stories and told us "Billy Gates is the second biggest drunk in the Bahamas. The biggest is Marcel. When Joann leaves, Billy drinks and when Joann comes home Billy is sober. He's really not supposed to be drinking.....But did you see his garden?"
When we leave the shore in the evening to head back to our boat, the sunset showing off like a child that needs attention. Reds, pinks and purples colliding. The red helicopter is parked back on the jetty after a day of tours and the cruiseship is loaded back up with passengers about to head to Cozumel or Grand Cayman or wherever. Billy and Marcel are back in the Bahamas. Billy's working in the garden of the house he built with his ex-wife and sold to the woman he fell in love with. Joann is coming home soon and he's taking a bag of empty beer bottles out to the trash. Everything is in its place.
We were in Hopetown, it was April and Anna spent the morning doing her taxes. Feeling productive, we decided to go for a walk, hoping to see the rest of Elbow Cay. On the way out of town a man in a flatbed truck pulled over and gave us a ride out of town. The truck pulled into a hardware store and we hopped out. On the ride we saw a couple hand painted signs in the shape of an ice cream cone with the words "Sugar Shack." painted in script. We decided to walk back towards the signs and see where they'd take us. Following the signs we turned off the main road and walked a few hundred yards. I began to smell basil and rosemary. On the right hand side of the road was a driveway where a golf cart was parked with two men in it. Walking past we waved and admired the garden in the yard where they sat. The size of three or four basketball courts, it was filled with greens, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers and more herbs than I can remember. In front of each group of plants was a marker that was finely printed that said, "I am Mexican Parsley" or "I am cabbage." The garden was designed not in the familiar rows you'd expect but in a way much more beautiful, the way Disney would design a garden, incorporating, rocks, arbors, shells, with twists and curves along the path. I admired the cayenne peppers dancing in the breeze, their smooth glossy skin shimmered in the sun making them look deceptively juicy and sweet and not my-mouth-is-a-volcano hot. Just past the garden was a small liquor store. Anna and I went in and purchased two Sands Light and wandered back to the garden out of curiosity.
The two men waved us over to their golf cart and introduced themselves. Marcel was tan and alcoholic skinny, with large ears and eyes. He said he just turned 83. His Dick Van Dyke's smile combined with the name Marcel made him look French. He spoke with the wild enthusiasm of someone working a crowd, like he expected you to leave was trying to tell you everything he could before that happened. He leaned in when he told stories like he was about to reveal a big secret which made me think he had a lot of them, stories, not secrets. He introduced Bill Gates, the man sitting next to him as Crocodile Dundee. Billy Gates was 46, blond and could have passed for Paul Hogan in a dark room. He wore his hair back in a ponytail and owned a construction company on Elbow Cay. The garden was Billy's and the house behind which it sat his girlfriend's. She'd left that morning for New York where she worked coordinating fashion shows. As the four of us drank and smoked on the golfcart and tried to get to know each other Marcel would sidetrack the conversation by announcing one of Billy's gifts.
"What's your name again?" asked Marcel for the third time.
"Jeff."
"Jeff, do you know this, I am 71 years old and this is my good friend the Crocodile Dundee? Like I told you this is Crocodile Dundee, you know the movie that this here is him, right here in the flesh." He goes right out there in the blue water and man I'll tell you...."and then he'd pause as if he'd suddenly run out of batteries and then suddenly start back up..."I'll tell you he goes right out and sees a shark he wrestles it."
"I thought you just turned 83?" Anna said.
Marcel said, "No I am 71, just turned 71."
Billy was a free diving spearfisherman and dealt with sharks not by retreating but by being the aggressor and spearing them too. "I just see the sharks and I don't like to run so I go for them with my spear." echoed Billy. "Tiger sharks, bull sharks it doesn't matter, you see them all here in the Bahamas." Marcel satisfied to be the friend of such a man put on a smile so big it doesn't fit his head and nods.
Billy encourages us to walk through the garden and pick anything we like and leaves to grab a few plastic bags.
"What's your name?" Marcel asks pointing his finger at me like a gun and looking at me with one eye shut.
"Jeff"
"Jeff, you don't have to worry about me. I am as harmless as an unborn kitten. Do you know I used to build fixed and rotor wing aircraft? I even built myself a gyrocopter but crashed it in the ocean."
"Really?
He held up his hand and said, "Honest, to god. I am not a liar and would never tolerate myself if I were. And I'll tell you something else. What's your name?
"Jeff"
"Jeff, me and Billy have been building a cruise ship, it's almost done too, we've been building it for two years."
"Really?"
"If I'm lying you can cut my lips off."
Billy returned and took us on a tour through his garden. As we walked he'd stop and hold each plant and say, "Do you like dill?" and cut large swaths of it. Eggplants, fennel, marjoram, spinach, tomatoes, Billy gave us some of everything. As he was taking us through the garden a neighbor came over and asked Billy for a few tomatoes. He gladly obliged. The mangoes, guavas and bananas were not ripe but he loaded us up with vegetables and herbs.
Back on the golf cart Billy suggested we drive up to the liquor store (literally the next property over) and refill on beer. Anna and I suggested we go see their cruise ship. Marcel excitedly agreed as long as we didn't reveal it's whereabouts to anyone. One the way over Marcel told us he'd just turned 73 and asked my name twice more.
The cruisehip they appropriately named Driftwood lay resting in Marcel's backyard in front of an old green lazyboy recliner. They found a twenty two foot fiberglass hull at a dump and built a small cabin atop. The holes in the hull had been patched and remained unpainted. The cabin was constructed of home materials rather than boat materials making it look like a strange amalgamation of land and sea. Accessed with a screen door the interior smelled of filth and urine. It contained one bed and a couple of cast iron pots. Marcel excitedly showed us his double sinks which were actually just two five gallon buckets filled with water. Marcel told us he'd been living in Driftwood to get away from his Haitian wife, whom he hated and referred to as a witch.
Marcel was now so intoxicated he literally could not walk without holding on to the side of his boat. We sat down, Billy in the recliner and Marcel told us stories about God. I couldn't determine if he liked God or not but whatever it was he was passionate about and grumbled, now barely coherent. Although he was still able to recite the alphabet backwards for us with incredible speed and accuracy. This pleased him and he sat smiling at his boat. Driftwood was his oasis in his backyard, the vessel that would allow him to sail away, maybe, to some place without his Haitian wife, a place where he was much younger than 71, 73 or 83. A small black girl no older than 12 brought him a coke and he introduced her as his daughter. He asked us to admire how beautiful she was which made her blush. I was uncertain if she was more embarrassed by her dad or by what he was saying.
I asked Marcel about his gyrocopter and he perked up, his eyes went from shut to slightly open and a smile came over him. Billy said, Marcel had built a small helicopter, it took him years, maybe ten to put together. It had a pontoon that allowed him to land on the water around Elbow Cay. One day he'd unknowingly landed it on a conch shell which punctured one of the pontoons and caused it to fill with water. Now off balance and weighted with hundreds of pounds of water Marcel took to air and shortly after crashed. The copter was destroyed but Marcel walked away entirely unscathed.
Billy suggested we go back to his girlfriend's house and have some wine. Marcel drunk, now settled into a state of grumpiness that allowed us to excuse ourselves without inviting him back to Billy's place. "He'll be better off here where he can pass out with his cruise ship."
Billy's girlfriend, Joann had a beautiful house, the garage covered with jasmine and the house with red, white and orange bougainvillea. Billy told us how he'd built the house with his ex-wife and then sold it to the woman who became his girlfriend. Which made us laugh and wonder if it was Joann or the house that was so special to him. We sat on the porch and drank wine as Billy told us about how much he loved Joann, how wonderful she was and how much he'd love for us to meet her. The way he spoke about love was unusual, not because he was slurring, but because he spoke about it casually and comfortably. More like a poet than the owner of a construction company. Still it was difficult to imagine a New York, fashion show producer with a Bahamian Crocodile Dundee.
When a golf cart pulled into the driveway, he immediately recognized it as his mom's. She'd come to berate him for being drunk and to request a special plant from Billy's garden. A friend of hers was going back to the States and their friend had cancer. The cancer wasn't responding to treatment and his mom new one Billy's plants as a remedy to all ailments. It's leaves were to be made into a tea for the woman. Billy suggested a few ways they might hide it to get it through customs like putting it inside of an empty shampoo bottle.
Anna and I called Philip, Amber and Chris on the VHF to invite them over to Billy's house. They came over with vodka and ate the cookies Joann left for Billy. Billy offered to get us pot from his dealer Francis. Philip informed Billy that Francis was out, as Philip had already tried buying from Francis. Billy called Francis and kept getting disconnected. Frustrated, Billy decided it was a good idea to just go over to Francis's house and talk to him in person so the six of us climbed on Billy's golf cart. Francis met Billy in the driveway and insisted that he go home. Billy told him what he wanted and this infuriated Francis. Francis told Billy he was too drunk, too drunk to even buy pot. Slightly agitated Billy turned the golf cart around and drove us back to Hopetown to our boat where we said goodnight and thanked him for the vegetables.
A few days later when Anna and I found ourselves at a beach restaurant down the road from Billy's house we asked the bartenders if they knew our friends Billy and Marcel. We told them about drinking with Billy about the cruiseship and asked them if Marcel really crashed his gyrocopter. They confirmed the stories and told us "Billy Gates is the second biggest drunk in the Bahamas. The biggest is Marcel. When Joann leaves, Billy drinks and when Joann comes home Billy is sober. He's really not supposed to be drinking.....But did you see his garden?"
When we leave the shore in the evening to head back to our boat, the sunset showing off like a child that needs attention. Reds, pinks and purples colliding. The red helicopter is parked back on the jetty after a day of tours and the cruiseship is loaded back up with passengers about to head to Cozumel or Grand Cayman or wherever. Billy and Marcel are back in the Bahamas. Billy's working in the garden of the house he built with his ex-wife and sold to the woman he fell in love with. Joann is coming home soon and he's taking a bag of empty beer bottles out to the trash. Everything is in its place.
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