Cat Island – March 5th
Ruth's Blog
Yay! We made it to Cat Island! And the crossing was
the smoothest, driest crossing yet! Don’t get me
wrong, the waves were still around 3 to 5 feet with
rogue swells reaching maybe 7 or 8 feet, but they were
very wide and rounded. We crossed two days after the
cold front and therefore the wind speed was on the
decline, most likely the cause for the waves being so
immense yet so rounded out. We left around 8 in the
morning and arrived 35 miles later around 3pm. Since
the seas were so rough to start, we had to make
numerous tacks to keep the boat under control. We
motor-sailed with a reefed main and full jib for
stability. Jack drove 99% of the time so that I could
take it easy, which was very kind of him! Another
possible explanation for the enormous rolling swells
is that we were crossing over the deepest ocean we’ve
ever crossed – the depth was over a mile deep! The
color of the ocean was so deep blue it was almost
purple! It was an amazing scene: rolling over these
massive purple waves, so giant they blocked out the
horizon, even in Jack’s view where he sat on the back
railing! Fish were flying out of the water at every
turn, dashing over and in between big swells and white
caps, fluttering for as long as 20 seconds! Large
patches of bright orange seaweed stretched out over
the surface. Miles out, birds circled the sky and dove
into the water at the jumping fish. Every so often the
force of the water and a gust of wind would swirl the
boat into a direction that caused the waves to tip us
back and forth on our side. It was quite a trip!
The sky was so clear we could see land twelve miles
away! When we finally arrived to the protected west
side of the island the water became that incredibly
clear, extremely aqua blue that we first saw when
arriving at Bimini and thus we exclaimed “Bimini
water!” After dropping anchor, I took a nap while Jack
read. After an hour of that hard work, we jumped into
the dingy and rowed over to land where our intention
was to explore the layout. We didn’t get passed the
bar though. Haha! In actuality, the bar and restaurant
was the only building available for miles that had
anything to offer besides the marina down the street.
It was part of a quaint resort with vacation cottages.
Across the street was an airstrip for small charter
planes.
The restaurant offered $40 dinners, so we hit up the
bar and watched the primary coverage in their lounge
on the big screen instead. We chilled out for a few
hours, and it was an extremely relaxing time,
especially after such a long trip. It was an open
bar, so Jack proceeded to make his own White Russians
– EXTRA, EXTRA (did I say EXTRA in all caps?) STRONG.
In fact, one of the proprietors (a stout, red-faced
German man) scolded him for it and for every drink
Jack had on the tab the guy marked THREE – which I
personally think is ridiculous. First of all, if
you’re going to have an open bar,, you must expect
customers to take advantage of its appeal. Secondly,
since you’re still charging a good amount for the
drinks, even if you suppose you will lose money
(which you won’t), pouring more vodka simply means
pouring less milk and Kaluha, which is more expensive
than vodka anyway.
Ahem, THUS when it came time to pay I stood my ground
and did not shell out the dough for the imaginary
extra drinks! By this point in time, Jack was kiiiinda
inebriated and a local dude named Patrick we had met
that night and discussed the election with was kind
enough to walk us back to our dingy since the paths to
the water were dark and somewhat overgrown. When we
got back Jack, in his ham-fisted state, fell into the
water when attempting to enter the boat from the
dingy! I helped pull him out, and we got him dry and
tucked in. I’m surprised he remembered it the next
day! Haha
Today I am still in pain but moreso I am ITCHY. I feel
like my skin is crawling with tiny bugs and at times
they are biting. It is the most uncomfortable state I
can imagine and I would actually rather be completely
in pain. It’s difficult for me to imagine how Jack
deals with feeling this way himself. What a challenge!
WHAT A GOOD SPORT. I honestly don’t know how I would
deal with it. I often feel so terribly helpless
because there is nothing I can do for him. L Right
now I am concentrating on the future, on the fact
that my situation is merely temporary.
We have a few ideas on how we’re going to spend some
of our time here. Jack is going to scuba dive in the
shallows (around 30 feet) and we are going to have a
fishing adventure out in the deep blue (out at the
drop-off, about 500 feet). I can’t wait to see what
the day will bring!
Monday, March 10, 2008
Fernandez Bay, 3-10-2008
FERNANDEZ BAY
By jack the lad
3-10-2008
Stuck in the boat for about the third day or so, with little to do but read. Fortunately though, this isn’t bad at all. We kind of dig these slow, gloomy days off from activity. It’s also cool to live on so little, take up so little space, think more, do less, spend nothing, and pollute hardly at all. Kind of a treat for the conscience, really. We’re having a big ol’ George Orwell day, me finishing 1984 again, and Ruth neck deep in Animal Farm. Good times. It’s incredible to me now to read that book and to note how prophetic it is, how visionary. The way people are directed to think, via print, t.v., etc, and of course, the neverending spectre of an enemy looming, a wartime economy, just as we’ve had for the last fifty supposedly peaceful years. All this from him in… 1949. Who could have known all this about the cycles of history, media control, and human behavior in that year? Especially, when he gets into the political ramifications of t.v., and nuclear weapons, which were both so new. Incredible. We also both just read a book called “Into the Wild,” which I would recommend, especially to Sean Brants (are you reading this Sean? And did I spell your name as you do it?) Anyway, we’re having a good time, and enjoying beauty of the place nonetheless. Our big ambition is to go in today and try to use the wireless at the resort while we each buy a $12 hamburger (fries extra, of course), and soak up some bandwidth. We hope the cold front eases up, not only for better weather (the wind is gone now, it’s just rain), but so we can get sunlight for the batteries. They are surprisingly well off, for lack of sunlight on the panels, but it’s still reassuring to have them baking in all those amps in the good ol’ sunlight. If there be any hope now, it lay in the proles.
That phrase “the good ol’ sunlight” reminds me of a song my Mom sings that kills me.
It’s good to get up in the morning
In the good old summertime
My brother Chuck is a baker
If early to rise makes you wise then a wise man he shall be
It’s good to get up in the morning, but it’s better to lie in bed
There’s a lot missing from what I wrote there. I just can’t remember it, but Phyllis could sing it to ya. Anyway, it captures my sentiments exactly. It’s nice to work, be productive, get up early and all that. And it’s even better when you don’t.
By jack the lad
3-10-2008
Stuck in the boat for about the third day or so, with little to do but read. Fortunately though, this isn’t bad at all. We kind of dig these slow, gloomy days off from activity. It’s also cool to live on so little, take up so little space, think more, do less, spend nothing, and pollute hardly at all. Kind of a treat for the conscience, really. We’re having a big ol’ George Orwell day, me finishing 1984 again, and Ruth neck deep in Animal Farm. Good times. It’s incredible to me now to read that book and to note how prophetic it is, how visionary. The way people are directed to think, via print, t.v., etc, and of course, the neverending spectre of an enemy looming, a wartime economy, just as we’ve had for the last fifty supposedly peaceful years. All this from him in… 1949. Who could have known all this about the cycles of history, media control, and human behavior in that year? Especially, when he gets into the political ramifications of t.v., and nuclear weapons, which were both so new. Incredible. We also both just read a book called “Into the Wild,” which I would recommend, especially to Sean Brants (are you reading this Sean? And did I spell your name as you do it?) Anyway, we’re having a good time, and enjoying beauty of the place nonetheless. Our big ambition is to go in today and try to use the wireless at the resort while we each buy a $12 hamburger (fries extra, of course), and soak up some bandwidth. We hope the cold front eases up, not only for better weather (the wind is gone now, it’s just rain), but so we can get sunlight for the batteries. They are surprisingly well off, for lack of sunlight on the panels, but it’s still reassuring to have them baking in all those amps in the good ol’ sunlight. If there be any hope now, it lay in the proles.
That phrase “the good ol’ sunlight” reminds me of a song my Mom sings that kills me.
It’s good to get up in the morning
In the good old summertime
My brother Chuck is a baker
If early to rise makes you wise then a wise man he shall be
It’s good to get up in the morning, but it’s better to lie in bed
There’s a lot missing from what I wrote there. I just can’t remember it, but Phyllis could sing it to ya. Anyway, it captures my sentiments exactly. It’s nice to work, be productive, get up early and all that. And it’s even better when you don’t.
Ol' Bight, March 9 2008
LEAVING OLD BIGHT, by Jack Livingstone
SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2008
Ruth and I have been on Cat Island for a few days now. We left Hawk’s Nest, and the Germans who thought I ate too much kingfish, and headed up the road to Old Bight. Old Bight was fine, but nothing was open.
On the way, we decided to have our “big fishing day.” I sat up figuring out how to do it the night before, planning how to catch more fish. After getting all the gear in order, I organized a tacklebox we just got into about forty compartments, got everything ready, blah blah blah. I finally figured that the best way to do it would be to troll like we had been, but use the downrigger to get the bait down where the fish were, and to put a series of hooks and lures on one line, to increase the chances of them getting seen/bit at. While Ruth drove us out to “the wall,” a dropoff to 1000 feet, I was busy stringing a long line of lures/leaders together, with about 10 lures on one 80 lb. line, a few feet apart. Carefully, we lowered it into the water, trailing it behind the boat, and finally, when we reached the bitter end of the line, I attached it to the fishing pole, and let out some line. I then took that line where it came off the pole, and attached it to the downrigger weight, and lowered the weight into the water. At the speed we were going, four miles per hour or so, the 150 feet of downrigger cable had the weight dragging behind the boat at about maybe 50 or more feet deep. Maybe deeper, who knows. What we did know though is that when we circled around and followed the wall, the waves sped up the boat. So when that happens, and you’re trying to troll slow, you slow the engine right? Wrong.
We slowed the engine, the downrigger weight started hanging more and more vertically under us as it trailed along, and WHAM! We felt something grab. The weight had hit a piece of coral or something along the dropoff, and a second later the cable broke. And then, weight, line and all of the lures were… gone.
So, that was our big fishing day.
I always used to want one of those hats that said “women want me, fish fear me,” except I wanted one that said “fish laugh at me.”
Ah, indeed they do, even still.
So we sailed on to Old Bight. Pulling in really close to shore and setting up shop, before dinghying in. Once on shore, we stopped in at the police station, and asked what was open, hoping to buy some things we were running low on. Like bread, butter, milk, cookies, the essentials, pretty much. We asked where we could buy such things, only to be met by blank stares, long pauses, and then some vague statements of something somewhere, that probably wasn’t open. We said screw it, and went a-walking. We found a “GIVE WAY” sign, which is the Bahamian counterpart to “Yield,” and threw that treasure in our dinghy to hang up somewhere in the States. We found a phone booth, and I called my Poor Old Mother, as she likes to refer to herself, and had a good conversation. She sounded neither poor, nor old, and exactly like my mother. It’s funny, how we view ourselves, and yet the world has a different impression…She sounded strong as an ox, and her usual exuberant self, rich with the blessings of life, and drunk on the beauty of her surroundings. So, anyway. My pore ol’ mudder is fine.
Leaving there, we experienced a miracle of sorts. Much as the Virgin Mary was spotted in a tortilla in Mexico some years back, and then later in a spot of rust on a statue of someone (I think it was Bono), Ruth spotted the unmistakable visage of another, lesser known saint, “the virgin Murray” in the knot of a pine tree.
“Saints be praised!” says I.
It was quite a revelation, and I’ll be jiggered if you couldn’t practically hear the trumpets of the angels heralding this discovery on such a blessed occasion. “Hark, hark!” the trumpets seemed to blare. In fact, it seemed that the whole world was suddenly bathed in an eerie golden glow, whereupon the faces of the local constabulary transformed into the approving, knowing looks of witnesses to the great discovery. We were all of one mind, at peace, and ready to go Murray’s discount auto stores for 10-15% off of everything in stock. If you look at the enclosed photos, you’ll notice it is replete with detail, right down to the signature locks of Crazy Murray, the Virgin’s blessed hairdo.
Further examination revealed several other miracles, including Saint Sebastian, Bono (from U2!), and that black guy from the Police Academy movies that makes all the funny noises.
We left there and walked up the hill a mile or two to the church of Beloved Father Jerome, an Englishman who built his home/church on the highest point of the Bahamas. It was really a sight. Very cool, and very impressive.
Also on the way, we looked at the Great House of Armbuster, or someone or other. “Great” seemed to be quite a misnomer really. We found it to be in disrepair and neglect, and lacking the deft touch of the maintenance men of Father Jerome’s house. In any event they were incredibly cool ruins of an old plantation house that had flowers, and ponciana trees even, growing inside. Did I mention that the Ponciana is my favorite tree? It’s got fern-like leaves, very delicate and tiny, and a really interesting bark, and is said to flower some incredible blossoms in the spring. I can’t wait. Those trees are awesome, flowers or no flowers.
Next door to that was another treasure, a house foundation (walls only, no floor or ceiling) that was filled with old bottles. When I say filled, I mean that it had about 2 foot of bottles on the floor, much to our delight. My first thought was to get some for my great friend Steve Wilson, so that he could bottle his beer in a few vintage bottles for kicks, and maybe for myself. Really though, they didn’t appear to be usable, most of them, because of the forms of the tops, not being conducive to receiving the bottle capper he uses. Either way though, there were some amazing artifacts. We also found a handle to an old stove, maybe a hundred years old or something. We stopped at the house next door to ask permission to take some, and the guy offered that we could take what we liked. He said many had been taken by a historical society already, and there were many that were 70-80 years old. I could believe that. We found some great ones- 50 year old ginger ale bottles with the label still painted on them, bottles from Trinidad, and one of blue glass, we’ll add to our collection that Colette gave us.
A side note there was the guy’s son, Lee, who came to the door with his father, Mr. Anderson. He said “I know you. Do you remember me?”
We confessed we didn’t, and scratched our melons trying to figure it out.
“Oh, maybe we all look alike to you,” he said.
“Man, don’t start that kind of crap, okay?” says I. “Where do we know you from?”
He couldn’t remember. What a prick. I can’t stand that crap, people trying to make a problem where none existed. Trying to make things racial when they aren’t. Shove off, my friend.
Next up was the Blue Bird Restaurant, where we had a nice meal, a few beers and played dominoes. Ruth won, as usual.
A really big fat American lady was walking her dog through the Church of Father Jerome, giving a tour to a friend and singing his praises was overheard to mention a cold front coming through. We chatted it up a bit and found out the details. I mention that she was big and fat not because I think it’s such a bad thing, but just that it’s funny that you can always peg an American from a half a mile off, while any other isn’t even visible until half that. I guess it’s just a glandular thing, and just a massive coincidence that all of the gland problems of the world ended up in the big melting pot of the U.S., with most of them landing right inside Louisiana. Incredible coincidence, that. Someone ought to study it.
In any event, we decided that after the Blue Bird, we’d hit the road. We threw the jib up and took off, and since it was windy as hell, it was about all we needed. Well, that and the engine. The other thing about us Americans: we’re a very lazy people.
Leaving Old Bight, which, if you can picture it, is the shape of a very large “C,” but facing the other way, we headed north along the top of the C shape to avoid the weather coming in from the west. We put out our grounding wire to the mast, as we like to do when we must sail in such weather, and headed up to Fernandez Creek Resort. Up at old Fernandez, we tucked into the tiny Fernandez Creek that gave the place its name. Patting ourselves on the back for our cleverness at having such a tiny boat with a shallow draft that can dodge into such places (the only other things that can get in there are small motor boats and catamarans, due to their shallow draft), we parked the boat (I think that’s the nautical term) and settled in. While there, Ruth and I had a squabble over something silly, and so, when meeting some people driving by in another boat who complimented us on our clever choice of anchorage, I told them “coming in here was MY idea!” to be a smartass. I was trying to get back at Ruth, who had questioned it on the way in, about whether it was a good idea. Boy did that backfire. Read on.
They told us to go to the resort where we could have a beer and free hors d’oevres, and pickup a bit of the old interweb. We headed in, and were not well received. I was wearing my Keens, (basically a rich man’s flip flop), dirty orange shorts, t-shirt and hoody, and some version of bedhead that I haven’t looked at in some days now. As though this wasn’t bad enough, Ruth was wearing her pink Crocs, some shorts that you couldn’t see, and hanging over those, making it appear that she was in the buff, was one of my old t-shirts I had been planning on contributing to the rag pile, due to the myriad stains all over it. I passed it off to Ruth because as her bandages have come off, she’s wearing loose clothes and bleeding all over them. So now, she looks like she’s wearing a giant men’s V-neck that’s been used to clean toilets or something. And it’s covered in blood and scabs, making it look like she just butchered a yak on the way in on the dinghy.
We’re told, much to our surprise, that we would need a reservation. Well, we said, we’ll just sit, order a drink to keep ‘em happy, and check our email.
We did that, but the interweb was incredibly slow (I’m pretty sure they shut it down to drive us out-seriously), but they brought around conch fritters while we coolly, classily, filthily, sipped our drinks, the very picture of elegance.
Taking a walk around, I found some really cool decorations. Much of the place was decorated from stuff taken from a sunken ship, including a treasure chest on the hearth, which the plaque said, had never been opened. (I’ll try to get a photo if we head in there. We might go tomorrow for lunch. We’ll see.) We checked the menu as well. The dinner that we couldn’t eat at was $45 a head. PASS! Lunch is a modest $12 for a hamburger. With chips. (what are you crazy? You think you’d get fries too, for that price?) Maybe we’ll have lunch there.
Anyway, while I was out sniffing around, Ruth met a guy who was the husband of a lady we met on the beach, walking to the resort. He had specifically walked up there to invite us to dinner. (I don’t know what gets into these people. If I had met us, I wouldn’t invite us to dinner, I’d be hiding my watch and putting my money in my sock…) He said it was their last night here, and they were having a cookout and we were invited. I guess he said that he didn’t want food to go to waste.
Never ones to turn away food, money, or free candy, we headed over. It turns out that these nice people are from… where else would such nice people come from? Kalamazoo! They actually live in Comstock, but that’s a coincidence. They fed us, offered us beer, bread, chicken, fruit salad, broccoli, and on and on. Kathy and Jeff, and we forgot to get a last name. Duh. Oh well. We got their email address, and they ours. We look forward to seeing them in mid-may. We told them we want to have a cookout then, probably a pigroast to celebrate all the people we missed so much, and invite them. They then offered that we could stay with them when in town, and have the cookout at their place. Can you believe that? Jeff is getting his P.H.D. and Master’s at Western, and Kathy works at Kalamazoo Community College? Not K.V.C.C. But the other one. I forget. Not K, not K.V.C.C. Anyway, awesome people.
We told them that they could come stay at our boat sometime when it was just floating around, but Kathy gets seasick, so they declined. I mention that so that you, reading this, know that we are serious about that invite, and really hope someone will help us make good use of this boat sitting here all the time, and not let it go to waste. Plus you could tell us if it’s still there or not. And if the water is still on the outside, and stuff.
Well, anyway. Jeff and Kelly’s place was really cool, decorated with more artifacts from shipwrecks. As we were leaving, they told us that they were done with their week here, and they wouldn’t be back, and were leaving a lot of food. They didn’t want it to waste it, so insisted we take it with us. They went further than that, saying their neighbors were now gone, and they had a fridge full of food too. They gave us all they had, including bread, milk, butter, eggs, COOKIES, beer, mustard, lemon juice, coffee, rice, pancake mix, celery, onions, cheese, coke, SALSA, syrup, tea, sugar, cornflakes, and more. All told, we had about 6 bags of food leaving there. All for free. Where do these people come from? Oh yeah. KalamaZOO.
We returned to the boat, and hit the sack. For a bit anyway. Shortly after our return, I was awakened by a knocking noise. It was the keel, gently bumping the bottom of the creek. A few things had happened that we didn’t count on: one, the tide wasn’t all the way out when we thought it was. Not a big deal though, since it varies about 3 feet total, and we were in about four feet of water when it was mostly out. We only draw about 2 feet, so we had some wiggle room. The other factor though, was that what looked like a little dead end inlet really was an actual creek. Not like we know it where the water flows one way, but more like, this is a path for the water to run through while some big swamp somewhere fills and empties. Dead end, my butt. Anyway, what had happened is that we didn’t count on so much water moving through this creek. It made the boat swing way to one side, even while the tide was low, and then it got lower, causing it to bottom out. To further exacerbate the problem, the cold front had started, so the wind had swung to the north now, and we were pinned to the gradually deepening south side of the creek. It’s always worse to ground out where the depth changes gradually, because the lateral forces on the boat can take you way further up on the land, counting the ups and downs of waves, than you could have if you just got pinned against a steep grade. So, needless to say, while Ruth gently slept, I gently wept.
Just kidding. I did have to get up though, and from 12:30 a.m. to 2:00, I was out there running the motor this way and that, trying to swing the boat out of it, to no avail. The other tactic was to go out and walk the anchor out into the deep water, and then back on the boat, tighten the line around a winch that I cleverly installed before our trip while trying to rock the boat, rev the engine, or whatever else. To no avail.
I gave up, and went to bed. Ruth, after all this racing of engine, splashing as I jump in and out of the boat, slamming of anchor, rattling of chain on the deck, swearing, yelling oaths at the sea gods, and on and on, wakes up to say “hey, I must have been asleep.” Now that, my friends is what you call good timing.
Well, then she got up to use the bathroom. A minute later, everything changed. Suddenly, the waves started crashing in at the rocks at the front of the creek. It was strange, because normally, these things are gradual. But anyway, it got suddenly very rough inside there, and the boat starts beating against the edge of the creek, and the rock that forms it. Desperate, we are now both trying to haul the damn boat out of there. After two and a half more hours of mucking about till 4:30, dragging anchors this way and that, tightening winches, revving engine, swearing oaths and just swearing in general, we are out in the center of the creek, or moreso, anyway. We put out three anchors 120 degrees apart, and turn in.
“Coming in here was MY idea!” is what I had said. Famous last words. Let that be a lesson: don’t ever brag credit for an idea, because the moment you do, you’ll find out that it’s your undoing. And don’t ever, EVER do it to be snide to your wife. Lesson learned. Goodnight all.
SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2008
Ruth and I have been on Cat Island for a few days now. We left Hawk’s Nest, and the Germans who thought I ate too much kingfish, and headed up the road to Old Bight. Old Bight was fine, but nothing was open.
On the way, we decided to have our “big fishing day.” I sat up figuring out how to do it the night before, planning how to catch more fish. After getting all the gear in order, I organized a tacklebox we just got into about forty compartments, got everything ready, blah blah blah. I finally figured that the best way to do it would be to troll like we had been, but use the downrigger to get the bait down where the fish were, and to put a series of hooks and lures on one line, to increase the chances of them getting seen/bit at. While Ruth drove us out to “the wall,” a dropoff to 1000 feet, I was busy stringing a long line of lures/leaders together, with about 10 lures on one 80 lb. line, a few feet apart. Carefully, we lowered it into the water, trailing it behind the boat, and finally, when we reached the bitter end of the line, I attached it to the fishing pole, and let out some line. I then took that line where it came off the pole, and attached it to the downrigger weight, and lowered the weight into the water. At the speed we were going, four miles per hour or so, the 150 feet of downrigger cable had the weight dragging behind the boat at about maybe 50 or more feet deep. Maybe deeper, who knows. What we did know though is that when we circled around and followed the wall, the waves sped up the boat. So when that happens, and you’re trying to troll slow, you slow the engine right? Wrong.
We slowed the engine, the downrigger weight started hanging more and more vertically under us as it trailed along, and WHAM! We felt something grab. The weight had hit a piece of coral or something along the dropoff, and a second later the cable broke. And then, weight, line and all of the lures were… gone.
So, that was our big fishing day.
I always used to want one of those hats that said “women want me, fish fear me,” except I wanted one that said “fish laugh at me.”
Ah, indeed they do, even still.
So we sailed on to Old Bight. Pulling in really close to shore and setting up shop, before dinghying in. Once on shore, we stopped in at the police station, and asked what was open, hoping to buy some things we were running low on. Like bread, butter, milk, cookies, the essentials, pretty much. We asked where we could buy such things, only to be met by blank stares, long pauses, and then some vague statements of something somewhere, that probably wasn’t open. We said screw it, and went a-walking. We found a “GIVE WAY” sign, which is the Bahamian counterpart to “Yield,” and threw that treasure in our dinghy to hang up somewhere in the States. We found a phone booth, and I called my Poor Old Mother, as she likes to refer to herself, and had a good conversation. She sounded neither poor, nor old, and exactly like my mother. It’s funny, how we view ourselves, and yet the world has a different impression…She sounded strong as an ox, and her usual exuberant self, rich with the blessings of life, and drunk on the beauty of her surroundings. So, anyway. My pore ol’ mudder is fine.
Leaving there, we experienced a miracle of sorts. Much as the Virgin Mary was spotted in a tortilla in Mexico some years back, and then later in a spot of rust on a statue of someone (I think it was Bono), Ruth spotted the unmistakable visage of another, lesser known saint, “the virgin Murray” in the knot of a pine tree.
“Saints be praised!” says I.
It was quite a revelation, and I’ll be jiggered if you couldn’t practically hear the trumpets of the angels heralding this discovery on such a blessed occasion. “Hark, hark!” the trumpets seemed to blare. In fact, it seemed that the whole world was suddenly bathed in an eerie golden glow, whereupon the faces of the local constabulary transformed into the approving, knowing looks of witnesses to the great discovery. We were all of one mind, at peace, and ready to go Murray’s discount auto stores for 10-15% off of everything in stock. If you look at the enclosed photos, you’ll notice it is replete with detail, right down to the signature locks of Crazy Murray, the Virgin’s blessed hairdo.
Further examination revealed several other miracles, including Saint Sebastian, Bono (from U2!), and that black guy from the Police Academy movies that makes all the funny noises.
We left there and walked up the hill a mile or two to the church of Beloved Father Jerome, an Englishman who built his home/church on the highest point of the Bahamas. It was really a sight. Very cool, and very impressive.
Also on the way, we looked at the Great House of Armbuster, or someone or other. “Great” seemed to be quite a misnomer really. We found it to be in disrepair and neglect, and lacking the deft touch of the maintenance men of Father Jerome’s house. In any event they were incredibly cool ruins of an old plantation house that had flowers, and ponciana trees even, growing inside. Did I mention that the Ponciana is my favorite tree? It’s got fern-like leaves, very delicate and tiny, and a really interesting bark, and is said to flower some incredible blossoms in the spring. I can’t wait. Those trees are awesome, flowers or no flowers.
Next door to that was another treasure, a house foundation (walls only, no floor or ceiling) that was filled with old bottles. When I say filled, I mean that it had about 2 foot of bottles on the floor, much to our delight. My first thought was to get some for my great friend Steve Wilson, so that he could bottle his beer in a few vintage bottles for kicks, and maybe for myself. Really though, they didn’t appear to be usable, most of them, because of the forms of the tops, not being conducive to receiving the bottle capper he uses. Either way though, there were some amazing artifacts. We also found a handle to an old stove, maybe a hundred years old or something. We stopped at the house next door to ask permission to take some, and the guy offered that we could take what we liked. He said many had been taken by a historical society already, and there were many that were 70-80 years old. I could believe that. We found some great ones- 50 year old ginger ale bottles with the label still painted on them, bottles from Trinidad, and one of blue glass, we’ll add to our collection that Colette gave us.
A side note there was the guy’s son, Lee, who came to the door with his father, Mr. Anderson. He said “I know you. Do you remember me?”
We confessed we didn’t, and scratched our melons trying to figure it out.
“Oh, maybe we all look alike to you,” he said.
“Man, don’t start that kind of crap, okay?” says I. “Where do we know you from?”
He couldn’t remember. What a prick. I can’t stand that crap, people trying to make a problem where none existed. Trying to make things racial when they aren’t. Shove off, my friend.
Next up was the Blue Bird Restaurant, where we had a nice meal, a few beers and played dominoes. Ruth won, as usual.
A really big fat American lady was walking her dog through the Church of Father Jerome, giving a tour to a friend and singing his praises was overheard to mention a cold front coming through. We chatted it up a bit and found out the details. I mention that she was big and fat not because I think it’s such a bad thing, but just that it’s funny that you can always peg an American from a half a mile off, while any other isn’t even visible until half that. I guess it’s just a glandular thing, and just a massive coincidence that all of the gland problems of the world ended up in the big melting pot of the U.S., with most of them landing right inside Louisiana. Incredible coincidence, that. Someone ought to study it.
In any event, we decided that after the Blue Bird, we’d hit the road. We threw the jib up and took off, and since it was windy as hell, it was about all we needed. Well, that and the engine. The other thing about us Americans: we’re a very lazy people.
Leaving Old Bight, which, if you can picture it, is the shape of a very large “C,” but facing the other way, we headed north along the top of the C shape to avoid the weather coming in from the west. We put out our grounding wire to the mast, as we like to do when we must sail in such weather, and headed up to Fernandez Creek Resort. Up at old Fernandez, we tucked into the tiny Fernandez Creek that gave the place its name. Patting ourselves on the back for our cleverness at having such a tiny boat with a shallow draft that can dodge into such places (the only other things that can get in there are small motor boats and catamarans, due to their shallow draft), we parked the boat (I think that’s the nautical term) and settled in. While there, Ruth and I had a squabble over something silly, and so, when meeting some people driving by in another boat who complimented us on our clever choice of anchorage, I told them “coming in here was MY idea!” to be a smartass. I was trying to get back at Ruth, who had questioned it on the way in, about whether it was a good idea. Boy did that backfire. Read on.
They told us to go to the resort where we could have a beer and free hors d’oevres, and pickup a bit of the old interweb. We headed in, and were not well received. I was wearing my Keens, (basically a rich man’s flip flop), dirty orange shorts, t-shirt and hoody, and some version of bedhead that I haven’t looked at in some days now. As though this wasn’t bad enough, Ruth was wearing her pink Crocs, some shorts that you couldn’t see, and hanging over those, making it appear that she was in the buff, was one of my old t-shirts I had been planning on contributing to the rag pile, due to the myriad stains all over it. I passed it off to Ruth because as her bandages have come off, she’s wearing loose clothes and bleeding all over them. So now, she looks like she’s wearing a giant men’s V-neck that’s been used to clean toilets or something. And it’s covered in blood and scabs, making it look like she just butchered a yak on the way in on the dinghy.
We’re told, much to our surprise, that we would need a reservation. Well, we said, we’ll just sit, order a drink to keep ‘em happy, and check our email.
We did that, but the interweb was incredibly slow (I’m pretty sure they shut it down to drive us out-seriously), but they brought around conch fritters while we coolly, classily, filthily, sipped our drinks, the very picture of elegance.
Taking a walk around, I found some really cool decorations. Much of the place was decorated from stuff taken from a sunken ship, including a treasure chest on the hearth, which the plaque said, had never been opened. (I’ll try to get a photo if we head in there. We might go tomorrow for lunch. We’ll see.) We checked the menu as well. The dinner that we couldn’t eat at was $45 a head. PASS! Lunch is a modest $12 for a hamburger. With chips. (what are you crazy? You think you’d get fries too, for that price?) Maybe we’ll have lunch there.
Anyway, while I was out sniffing around, Ruth met a guy who was the husband of a lady we met on the beach, walking to the resort. He had specifically walked up there to invite us to dinner. (I don’t know what gets into these people. If I had met us, I wouldn’t invite us to dinner, I’d be hiding my watch and putting my money in my sock…) He said it was their last night here, and they were having a cookout and we were invited. I guess he said that he didn’t want food to go to waste.
Never ones to turn away food, money, or free candy, we headed over. It turns out that these nice people are from… where else would such nice people come from? Kalamazoo! They actually live in Comstock, but that’s a coincidence. They fed us, offered us beer, bread, chicken, fruit salad, broccoli, and on and on. Kathy and Jeff, and we forgot to get a last name. Duh. Oh well. We got their email address, and they ours. We look forward to seeing them in mid-may. We told them we want to have a cookout then, probably a pigroast to celebrate all the people we missed so much, and invite them. They then offered that we could stay with them when in town, and have the cookout at their place. Can you believe that? Jeff is getting his P.H.D. and Master’s at Western, and Kathy works at Kalamazoo Community College? Not K.V.C.C. But the other one. I forget. Not K, not K.V.C.C. Anyway, awesome people.
We told them that they could come stay at our boat sometime when it was just floating around, but Kathy gets seasick, so they declined. I mention that so that you, reading this, know that we are serious about that invite, and really hope someone will help us make good use of this boat sitting here all the time, and not let it go to waste. Plus you could tell us if it’s still there or not. And if the water is still on the outside, and stuff.
Well, anyway. Jeff and Kelly’s place was really cool, decorated with more artifacts from shipwrecks. As we were leaving, they told us that they were done with their week here, and they wouldn’t be back, and were leaving a lot of food. They didn’t want it to waste it, so insisted we take it with us. They went further than that, saying their neighbors were now gone, and they had a fridge full of food too. They gave us all they had, including bread, milk, butter, eggs, COOKIES, beer, mustard, lemon juice, coffee, rice, pancake mix, celery, onions, cheese, coke, SALSA, syrup, tea, sugar, cornflakes, and more. All told, we had about 6 bags of food leaving there. All for free. Where do these people come from? Oh yeah. KalamaZOO.
We returned to the boat, and hit the sack. For a bit anyway. Shortly after our return, I was awakened by a knocking noise. It was the keel, gently bumping the bottom of the creek. A few things had happened that we didn’t count on: one, the tide wasn’t all the way out when we thought it was. Not a big deal though, since it varies about 3 feet total, and we were in about four feet of water when it was mostly out. We only draw about 2 feet, so we had some wiggle room. The other factor though, was that what looked like a little dead end inlet really was an actual creek. Not like we know it where the water flows one way, but more like, this is a path for the water to run through while some big swamp somewhere fills and empties. Dead end, my butt. Anyway, what had happened is that we didn’t count on so much water moving through this creek. It made the boat swing way to one side, even while the tide was low, and then it got lower, causing it to bottom out. To further exacerbate the problem, the cold front had started, so the wind had swung to the north now, and we were pinned to the gradually deepening south side of the creek. It’s always worse to ground out where the depth changes gradually, because the lateral forces on the boat can take you way further up on the land, counting the ups and downs of waves, than you could have if you just got pinned against a steep grade. So, needless to say, while Ruth gently slept, I gently wept.
Just kidding. I did have to get up though, and from 12:30 a.m. to 2:00, I was out there running the motor this way and that, trying to swing the boat out of it, to no avail. The other tactic was to go out and walk the anchor out into the deep water, and then back on the boat, tighten the line around a winch that I cleverly installed before our trip while trying to rock the boat, rev the engine, or whatever else. To no avail.
I gave up, and went to bed. Ruth, after all this racing of engine, splashing as I jump in and out of the boat, slamming of anchor, rattling of chain on the deck, swearing, yelling oaths at the sea gods, and on and on, wakes up to say “hey, I must have been asleep.” Now that, my friends is what you call good timing.
Well, then she got up to use the bathroom. A minute later, everything changed. Suddenly, the waves started crashing in at the rocks at the front of the creek. It was strange, because normally, these things are gradual. But anyway, it got suddenly very rough inside there, and the boat starts beating against the edge of the creek, and the rock that forms it. Desperate, we are now both trying to haul the damn boat out of there. After two and a half more hours of mucking about till 4:30, dragging anchors this way and that, tightening winches, revving engine, swearing oaths and just swearing in general, we are out in the center of the creek, or moreso, anyway. We put out three anchors 120 degrees apart, and turn in.
“Coming in here was MY idea!” is what I had said. Famous last words. Let that be a lesson: don’t ever brag credit for an idea, because the moment you do, you’ll find out that it’s your undoing. And don’t ever, EVER do it to be snide to your wife. Lesson learned. Goodnight all.
Ol' Bight
LEAVING OLD BIGHT, by Jack Livingstone
SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2008
Ruth and I have been on Cat Island for a few days now. We left Hawk’s Nest, and the Germans who thought I ate too much kingfish, and headed up the road to Old Bight. Old Bight was fine, but nothing was open.
On the way, we decided to have our “big fishing day.” I sat up figuring out how to do it the night before, planning how to catch more fish. After getting all the gear in order, I organized a tacklebox we just got into about forty compartments, got everything ready, blah blah blah. I finally figured that the best way to do it would be to troll like we had been, but use the downrigger to get the bait down where the fish were, and to put a series of hooks and lures on one line, to increase the chances of them getting seen/bit at. While Ruth drove us out to “the wall,” a dropoff to 1000 feet, I was busy stringing a long line of lures/leaders together, with about 10 lures on one 80 lb. line, a few feet apart. Carefully, we lowered it into the water, trailing it behind the boat, and finally, when we reached the bitter end of the line, I attached it to the fishing pole, and let out some line. I then took that line where it came off the pole, and attached it to the downrigger weight, and lowered the weight into the water. At the speed we were going, four miles per hour or so, the 150 feet of downrigger cable had the weight dragging behind the boat at about maybe 50 or more feet deep. Maybe deeper, who knows. What we did know though is that when we circled around and followed the wall, the waves sped up the boat. So when that happens, and you’re trying to troll slow, you slow the engine right? Wrong.
We slowed the engine, the downrigger weight started hanging more and more vertically under us as it trailed along, and WHAM! We felt something grab. The weight had hit a piece of coral or something along the dropoff, and a second later the cable broke. And then, weight, line and all of the lures were… gone.
So, that was our big fishing day.
I always used to want one of those hats that said “women want me, fish fear me,” except I wanted one that said “fish laugh at me.”
Ah, indeed they do, even still.
So we sailed on to Old Bight. Pulling in really close to shore and setting up shop, before dinghying in. Once on shore, we stopped in at the police station, and asked what was open, hoping to buy some things we were running low on. Like bread, butter, milk, cookies, the essentials, pretty much. We asked where we could buy such things, only to be met by blank stares, long pauses, and then some vague statements of something somewhere, that probably wasn’t open. We said screw it, and went a-walking. We found a “GIVE WAY” sign, which is the Bahamian counterpart to “Yield,” and threw that treasure in our dinghy to hang up somewhere in the States. We found a phone booth, and I called my Poor Old Mother, as she likes to refer to herself, and had a good conversation. She sounded neither poor, nor old, and exactly like my mother. It’s funny, how we view ourselves, and yet the world has a different impression…She sounded strong as an ox, and her usual exuberant self, rich with the blessings of life, and drunk on the beauty of her surroundings. So, anyway. My pore ol’ mudder is fine.
Leaving there, we experienced a miracle of sorts. Much as the Virgin Mary was spotted in a tortilla in Mexico some years back, and then later in a spot of rust on a statue of someone (I think it was Bono), Ruth spotted the unmistakable visage of another, lesser known saint, “the virgin Murray” in the knot of a pine tree.
“Saints be praised!” says I.
It was quite a revelation, and I’ll be jiggered if you couldn’t practically hear the trumpets of the angels heralding this discovery on such a blessed occasion. “Hark, hark!” the trumpets seemed to blare. In fact, it seemed that the whole world was suddenly bathed in an eerie golden glow, whereupon the faces of the local constabulary transformed into the approving, knowing looks of witnesses to the great discovery. We were all of one mind, at peace, and ready to go Murray’s discount auto stores for 10-15% off of everything in stock. If you look at the enclosed photos, you’ll notice it is replete with detail, right down to the signature locks of Crazy Murray, the Virgin’s blessed hairdo.
Further examination revealed several other miracles, including Saint Sebastian, Bono (from U2!), and that black guy from the Police Academy movies that makes all the funny noises.
We left there and walked up the hill a mile or two to the church of Beloved Father Jerome, an Englishman who built his home/church on the highest point of the Bahamas. It was really a sight. Very cool, and very impressive.
Also on the way, we looked at the Great House of Armbuster, or someone or other. “Great” seemed to be quite a misnomer really. We found it to be in disrepair and neglect, and lacking the deft touch of the maintenance men of Father Jerome’s house. In any event they were incredibly cool ruins of an old plantation house that had flowers, and ponciana trees even, growing inside. Did I mention that the Ponciana is my favorite tree? It’s got fern-like leaves, very delicate and tiny, and a really interesting bark, and is said to flower some incredible blossoms in the spring. I can’t wait. Those trees are awesome, flowers or no flowers.
Next door to that was another treasure, a house foundation (walls only, no floor or ceiling) that was filled with old bottles. When I say filled, I mean that it had about 2 foot of bottles on the floor, much to our delight. My first thought was to get some for my great friend Steve Wilson, so that he could bottle his beer in a few vintage bottles for kicks, and maybe for myself. Really though, they didn’t appear to be usable, most of them, because of the forms of the tops, not being conducive to receiving the bottle capper he uses. Either way though, there were some amazing artifacts. We also found a handle to an old stove, maybe a hundred years old or something. We stopped at the house next door to ask permission to take some, and the guy offered that we could take what we liked. He said many had been taken by a historical society already, and there were many that were 70-80 years old. I could believe that. We found some great ones- 50 year old ginger ale bottles with the label still painted on them, bottles from Trinidad, and one of blue glass, we’ll add to our collection that Colette gave us.
A side note there was the guy’s son, Lee, who came to the door with his father, Mr. Anderson. He said “I know you. Do you remember me?”
We confessed we didn’t, and scratched our melons trying to figure it out.
“Oh, maybe we all look alike to you,” he said.
“Man, don’t start that kind of crap, okay?” says I. “Where do we know you from?”
He couldn’t remember. What a prick. I can’t stand that crap, people trying to make a problem where none existed. Trying to make things racial when they aren’t. Shove off, my friend.
Next up was the Blue Bird Restaurant, where we had a nice meal, a few beers and played dominoes. Ruth won, as usual.
A really big fat American lady was walking her dog through the Church of Father Jerome, giving a tour to a friend and singing his praises was overheard to mention a cold front coming through. We chatted it up a bit and found out the details. I mention that she was big and fat not because I think it’s such a bad thing, but just that it’s funny that you can always peg an American from a half a mile off, while any other isn’t even visible until half that. I guess it’s just a glandular thing, and just a massive coincidence that all of the gland problems of the world ended up in the big melting pot of the U.S., with most of them landing right inside Louisiana. Incredible coincidence, that. Someone ought to study it.
In any event, we decided that after the Blue Bird, we’d hit the road. We threw the jib up and took off, and since it was windy as hell, it was about all we needed. Well, that and the engine. The other thing about us Americans: we’re a very lazy people.
Leaving Old Bight, which, if you can picture it, is the shape of a very large “C,” but facing the other way, we headed north along the top of the C shape to avoid the weather coming in from the west. We put out our grounding wire to the mast, as we like to do when we must sail in such weather, and headed up to Fernandez Creek Resort. Up at old Fernandez, we tucked into the tiny Fernandez Creek that gave the place its name. Patting ourselves on the back for our cleverness at having such a tiny boat with a shallow draft that can dodge into such places (the only other things that can get in there are small motor boats and catamarans, due to their shallow draft), we parked the boat (I think that’s the nautical term) and settled in. While there, Ruth and I had a squabble over something silly, and so, when meeting some people driving by in another boat who complimented us on our clever choice of anchorage, I told them “coming in here was MY idea!” to be a smartass. I was trying to get back at Ruth, who had questioned it on the way in, about whether it was a good idea. Boy did that backfire. Read on.
They told us to go to the resort where we could have a beer and free hors d’oevres, and pickup a bit of the old interweb. We headed in, and were not well received. I was wearing my Keens, (basically a rich man’s flip flop), dirty orange shorts, t-shirt and hoody, and some version of bedhead that I haven’t looked at in some days now. As though this wasn’t bad enough, Ruth was wearing her pink Crocs, some shorts that you couldn’t see, and hanging over those, making it appear that she was in the buff, was one of my old t-shirts I had been planning on contributing to the rag pile, due to the myriad stains all over it. I passed it off to Ruth because as her bandages have come off, she’s wearing loose clothes and bleeding all over them. So now, she looks like she’s wearing a giant men’s V-neck that’s been used to clean toilets or something. And it’s covered in blood and scabs, making it look like she just butchered a yak on the way in on the dinghy.
We’re told, much to our surprise, that we would need a reservation. Well, we said, we’ll just sit, order a drink to keep ‘em happy, and check our email.
We did that, but the interweb was incredibly slow (I’m pretty sure they shut it down to drive us out-seriously), but they brought around conch fritters while we coolly, classily, filthily, sipped our drinks, the very picture of elegance.
Taking a walk around, I found some really cool decorations. Much of the place was decorated from stuff taken from a sunken ship, including a treasure chest on the hearth, which the plaque said, had never been opened. (I’ll try to get a photo if we head in there. We might go tomorrow for lunch. We’ll see.) We checked the menu as well. The dinner that we couldn’t eat at was $45 a head. PASS! Lunch is a modest $12 for a hamburger. With chips. (what are you crazy? You think you’d get fries too, for that price?) Maybe we’ll have lunch there.
Anyway, while I was out sniffing around, Ruth met a guy who was the husband of a lady we met on the beach, walking to the resort. He had specifically walked up there to invite us to dinner. (I don’t know what gets into these people. If I had met us, I wouldn’t invite us to dinner, I’d be hiding my watch and putting my money in my sock…) He said it was their last night here, and they were having a cookout and we were invited. I guess he said that he didn’t want food to go to waste.
Never ones to turn away food, money, or free candy, we headed over. It turns out that these nice people are from… where else would such nice people come from? Kalamazoo! They actually live in Comstock, but that’s a coincidence. They fed us, offered us beer, bread, chicken, fruit salad, broccoli, and on and on. Kathy and Jeff, and we forgot to get a last name. Duh. Oh well. We got their email address, and they ours. We look forward to seeing them in mid-may. We told them we want to have a cookout then, probably a pigroast to celebrate all the people we missed so much, and invite them. They then offered that we could stay with them when in town, and have the cookout at their place. Can you believe that? Jeff is getting his P.H.D. and Master’s at Western, and Kathy works at Kalamazoo Community College? Not K.V.C.C. But the other one. I forget. Not K, not K.V.C.C. Anyway, awesome people.
We told them that they could come stay at our boat sometime when it was just floating around, but Kathy gets seasick, so they declined. I mention that so that you, reading this, know that we are serious about that invite, and really hope someone will help us make good use of this boat sitting here all the time, and not let it go to waste. Plus you could tell us if it’s still there or not. And if the water is still on the outside, and stuff.
Well, anyway. Jeff and Kelly’s place was really cool, decorated with more artifacts from shipwrecks. As we were leaving, they told us that they were done with their week here, and they wouldn’t be back, and were leaving a lot of food. They didn’t want it to waste it, so insisted we take it with us. They went further than that, saying their neighbors were now gone, and they had a fridge full of food too. They gave us all they had, including bread, milk, butter, eggs, COOKIES, beer, mustard, lemon juice, coffee, rice, pancake mix, celery, onions, cheese, coke, SALSA, syrup, tea, sugar, cornflakes, and more. All told, we had about 6 bags of food leaving there. All for free. Where do these people come from? Oh yeah. KalamaZOO.
We returned to the boat, and hit the sack. For a bit anyway. Shortly after our return, I was awakened by a knocking noise. It was the keel, gently bumping the bottom of the creek. A few things had happened that we didn’t count on: one, the tide wasn’t all the way out when we thought it was. Not a big deal though, since it varies about 3 feet total, and we were in about four feet of water when it was mostly out. We only draw about 2 feet, so we had some wiggle room. The other factor though, was that what looked like a little dead end inlet really was an actual creek. Not like we know it where the water flows one way, but more like, this is a path for the water to run through while some big swamp somewhere fills and empties. Dead end, my butt. Anyway, what had happened is that we didn’t count on so much water moving through this creek. It made the boat swing way to one side, even while the tide was low, and then it got lower, causing it to bottom out. To further exacerbate the problem, the cold front had started, so the wind had swung to the north now, and we were pinned to the gradually deepening south side of the creek. It’s always worse to ground out where the depth changes gradually, because the lateral forces on the boat can take you way further up on the land, counting the ups and downs of waves, than you could have if you just got pinned against a steep grade. So, needless to say, while Ruth gently slept, I gently wept.
Just kidding. I did have to get up though, and from 12:30 a.m. to 2:00, I was out there running the motor this way and that, trying to swing the boat out of it, to no avail. The other tactic was to go out and walk the anchor out into the deep water, and then back on the boat, tighten the line around a winch that I cleverly installed before our trip while trying to rock the boat, rev the engine, or whatever else. To no avail.
I gave up, and went to bed. Ruth, after all this racing of engine, splashing as I jump in and out of the boat, slamming of anchor, rattling of chain on the deck, swearing, yelling oaths at the sea gods, and on and on, wakes up to say “hey, I must have been asleep.” Now that, my friends is what you call good timing.
Well, then she got up to use the bathroom. A minute later, everything changed. Suddenly, the waves started crashing in at the rocks at the front of the creek. It was strange, because normally, these things are gradual. But anyway, it got suddenly very rough inside there, and the boat starts beating against the edge of the creek, and the rock that forms it. Desperate, we are now both trying to haul the damn boat out of there. After two and a half more hours of mucking about till 4:30, dragging anchors this way and that, tightening winches, revving engine, swearing oaths and just swearing in general, we are out in the center of the creek, or moreso, anyway. We put out three anchors 120 degrees apart, and turn in.
“Coming in here was MY idea!” is what I had said. Famous last words. Let that be a lesson: don’t ever brag credit for an idea, because the moment you do, you’ll find out that it’s your undoing. And don’t ever, EVER do it to be snide to your wife. Lesson learned. Goodnight all.
SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2008
Ruth and I have been on Cat Island for a few days now. We left Hawk’s Nest, and the Germans who thought I ate too much kingfish, and headed up the road to Old Bight. Old Bight was fine, but nothing was open.
On the way, we decided to have our “big fishing day.” I sat up figuring out how to do it the night before, planning how to catch more fish. After getting all the gear in order, I organized a tacklebox we just got into about forty compartments, got everything ready, blah blah blah. I finally figured that the best way to do it would be to troll like we had been, but use the downrigger to get the bait down where the fish were, and to put a series of hooks and lures on one line, to increase the chances of them getting seen/bit at. While Ruth drove us out to “the wall,” a dropoff to 1000 feet, I was busy stringing a long line of lures/leaders together, with about 10 lures on one 80 lb. line, a few feet apart. Carefully, we lowered it into the water, trailing it behind the boat, and finally, when we reached the bitter end of the line, I attached it to the fishing pole, and let out some line. I then took that line where it came off the pole, and attached it to the downrigger weight, and lowered the weight into the water. At the speed we were going, four miles per hour or so, the 150 feet of downrigger cable had the weight dragging behind the boat at about maybe 50 or more feet deep. Maybe deeper, who knows. What we did know though is that when we circled around and followed the wall, the waves sped up the boat. So when that happens, and you’re trying to troll slow, you slow the engine right? Wrong.
We slowed the engine, the downrigger weight started hanging more and more vertically under us as it trailed along, and WHAM! We felt something grab. The weight had hit a piece of coral or something along the dropoff, and a second later the cable broke. And then, weight, line and all of the lures were… gone.
So, that was our big fishing day.
I always used to want one of those hats that said “women want me, fish fear me,” except I wanted one that said “fish laugh at me.”
Ah, indeed they do, even still.
So we sailed on to Old Bight. Pulling in really close to shore and setting up shop, before dinghying in. Once on shore, we stopped in at the police station, and asked what was open, hoping to buy some things we were running low on. Like bread, butter, milk, cookies, the essentials, pretty much. We asked where we could buy such things, only to be met by blank stares, long pauses, and then some vague statements of something somewhere, that probably wasn’t open. We said screw it, and went a-walking. We found a “GIVE WAY” sign, which is the Bahamian counterpart to “Yield,” and threw that treasure in our dinghy to hang up somewhere in the States. We found a phone booth, and I called my Poor Old Mother, as she likes to refer to herself, and had a good conversation. She sounded neither poor, nor old, and exactly like my mother. It’s funny, how we view ourselves, and yet the world has a different impression…She sounded strong as an ox, and her usual exuberant self, rich with the blessings of life, and drunk on the beauty of her surroundings. So, anyway. My pore ol’ mudder is fine.
Leaving there, we experienced a miracle of sorts. Much as the Virgin Mary was spotted in a tortilla in Mexico some years back, and then later in a spot of rust on a statue of someone (I think it was Bono), Ruth spotted the unmistakable visage of another, lesser known saint, “the virgin Murray” in the knot of a pine tree.
“Saints be praised!” says I.
It was quite a revelation, and I’ll be jiggered if you couldn’t practically hear the trumpets of the angels heralding this discovery on such a blessed occasion. “Hark, hark!” the trumpets seemed to blare. In fact, it seemed that the whole world was suddenly bathed in an eerie golden glow, whereupon the faces of the local constabulary transformed into the approving, knowing looks of witnesses to the great discovery. We were all of one mind, at peace, and ready to go Murray’s discount auto stores for 10-15% off of everything in stock. If you look at the enclosed photos, you’ll notice it is replete with detail, right down to the signature locks of Crazy Murray, the Virgin’s blessed hairdo.
Further examination revealed several other miracles, including Saint Sebastian, Bono (from U2!), and that black guy from the Police Academy movies that makes all the funny noises.
We left there and walked up the hill a mile or two to the church of Beloved Father Jerome, an Englishman who built his home/church on the highest point of the Bahamas. It was really a sight. Very cool, and very impressive.
Also on the way, we looked at the Great House of Armbuster, or someone or other. “Great” seemed to be quite a misnomer really. We found it to be in disrepair and neglect, and lacking the deft touch of the maintenance men of Father Jerome’s house. In any event they were incredibly cool ruins of an old plantation house that had flowers, and ponciana trees even, growing inside. Did I mention that the Ponciana is my favorite tree? It’s got fern-like leaves, very delicate and tiny, and a really interesting bark, and is said to flower some incredible blossoms in the spring. I can’t wait. Those trees are awesome, flowers or no flowers.
Next door to that was another treasure, a house foundation (walls only, no floor or ceiling) that was filled with old bottles. When I say filled, I mean that it had about 2 foot of bottles on the floor, much to our delight. My first thought was to get some for my great friend Steve Wilson, so that he could bottle his beer in a few vintage bottles for kicks, and maybe for myself. Really though, they didn’t appear to be usable, most of them, because of the forms of the tops, not being conducive to receiving the bottle capper he uses. Either way though, there were some amazing artifacts. We also found a handle to an old stove, maybe a hundred years old or something. We stopped at the house next door to ask permission to take some, and the guy offered that we could take what we liked. He said many had been taken by a historical society already, and there were many that were 70-80 years old. I could believe that. We found some great ones- 50 year old ginger ale bottles with the label still painted on them, bottles from Trinidad, and one of blue glass, we’ll add to our collection that Colette gave us.
A side note there was the guy’s son, Lee, who came to the door with his father, Mr. Anderson. He said “I know you. Do you remember me?”
We confessed we didn’t, and scratched our melons trying to figure it out.
“Oh, maybe we all look alike to you,” he said.
“Man, don’t start that kind of crap, okay?” says I. “Where do we know you from?”
He couldn’t remember. What a prick. I can’t stand that crap, people trying to make a problem where none existed. Trying to make things racial when they aren’t. Shove off, my friend.
Next up was the Blue Bird Restaurant, where we had a nice meal, a few beers and played dominoes. Ruth won, as usual.
A really big fat American lady was walking her dog through the Church of Father Jerome, giving a tour to a friend and singing his praises was overheard to mention a cold front coming through. We chatted it up a bit and found out the details. I mention that she was big and fat not because I think it’s such a bad thing, but just that it’s funny that you can always peg an American from a half a mile off, while any other isn’t even visible until half that. I guess it’s just a glandular thing, and just a massive coincidence that all of the gland problems of the world ended up in the big melting pot of the U.S., with most of them landing right inside Louisiana. Incredible coincidence, that. Someone ought to study it.
In any event, we decided that after the Blue Bird, we’d hit the road. We threw the jib up and took off, and since it was windy as hell, it was about all we needed. Well, that and the engine. The other thing about us Americans: we’re a very lazy people.
Leaving Old Bight, which, if you can picture it, is the shape of a very large “C,” but facing the other way, we headed north along the top of the C shape to avoid the weather coming in from the west. We put out our grounding wire to the mast, as we like to do when we must sail in such weather, and headed up to Fernandez Creek Resort. Up at old Fernandez, we tucked into the tiny Fernandez Creek that gave the place its name. Patting ourselves on the back for our cleverness at having such a tiny boat with a shallow draft that can dodge into such places (the only other things that can get in there are small motor boats and catamarans, due to their shallow draft), we parked the boat (I think that’s the nautical term) and settled in. While there, Ruth and I had a squabble over something silly, and so, when meeting some people driving by in another boat who complimented us on our clever choice of anchorage, I told them “coming in here was MY idea!” to be a smartass. I was trying to get back at Ruth, who had questioned it on the way in, about whether it was a good idea. Boy did that backfire. Read on.
They told us to go to the resort where we could have a beer and free hors d’oevres, and pickup a bit of the old interweb. We headed in, and were not well received. I was wearing my Keens, (basically a rich man’s flip flop), dirty orange shorts, t-shirt and hoody, and some version of bedhead that I haven’t looked at in some days now. As though this wasn’t bad enough, Ruth was wearing her pink Crocs, some shorts that you couldn’t see, and hanging over those, making it appear that she was in the buff, was one of my old t-shirts I had been planning on contributing to the rag pile, due to the myriad stains all over it. I passed it off to Ruth because as her bandages have come off, she’s wearing loose clothes and bleeding all over them. So now, she looks like she’s wearing a giant men’s V-neck that’s been used to clean toilets or something. And it’s covered in blood and scabs, making it look like she just butchered a yak on the way in on the dinghy.
We’re told, much to our surprise, that we would need a reservation. Well, we said, we’ll just sit, order a drink to keep ‘em happy, and check our email.
We did that, but the interweb was incredibly slow (I’m pretty sure they shut it down to drive us out-seriously), but they brought around conch fritters while we coolly, classily, filthily, sipped our drinks, the very picture of elegance.
Taking a walk around, I found some really cool decorations. Much of the place was decorated from stuff taken from a sunken ship, including a treasure chest on the hearth, which the plaque said, had never been opened. (I’ll try to get a photo if we head in there. We might go tomorrow for lunch. We’ll see.) We checked the menu as well. The dinner that we couldn’t eat at was $45 a head. PASS! Lunch is a modest $12 for a hamburger. With chips. (what are you crazy? You think you’d get fries too, for that price?) Maybe we’ll have lunch there.
Anyway, while I was out sniffing around, Ruth met a guy who was the husband of a lady we met on the beach, walking to the resort. He had specifically walked up there to invite us to dinner. (I don’t know what gets into these people. If I had met us, I wouldn’t invite us to dinner, I’d be hiding my watch and putting my money in my sock…) He said it was their last night here, and they were having a cookout and we were invited. I guess he said that he didn’t want food to go to waste.
Never ones to turn away food, money, or free candy, we headed over. It turns out that these nice people are from… where else would such nice people come from? Kalamazoo! They actually live in Comstock, but that’s a coincidence. They fed us, offered us beer, bread, chicken, fruit salad, broccoli, and on and on. Kathy and Jeff, and we forgot to get a last name. Duh. Oh well. We got their email address, and they ours. We look forward to seeing them in mid-may. We told them we want to have a cookout then, probably a pigroast to celebrate all the people we missed so much, and invite them. They then offered that we could stay with them when in town, and have the cookout at their place. Can you believe that? Jeff is getting his P.H.D. and Master’s at Western, and Kathy works at Kalamazoo Community College? Not K.V.C.C. But the other one. I forget. Not K, not K.V.C.C. Anyway, awesome people.
We told them that they could come stay at our boat sometime when it was just floating around, but Kathy gets seasick, so they declined. I mention that so that you, reading this, know that we are serious about that invite, and really hope someone will help us make good use of this boat sitting here all the time, and not let it go to waste. Plus you could tell us if it’s still there or not. And if the water is still on the outside, and stuff.
Well, anyway. Jeff and Kelly’s place was really cool, decorated with more artifacts from shipwrecks. As we were leaving, they told us that they were done with their week here, and they wouldn’t be back, and were leaving a lot of food. They didn’t want it to waste it, so insisted we take it with us. They went further than that, saying their neighbors were now gone, and they had a fridge full of food too. They gave us all they had, including bread, milk, butter, eggs, COOKIES, beer, mustard, lemon juice, coffee, rice, pancake mix, celery, onions, cheese, coke, SALSA, syrup, tea, sugar, cornflakes, and more. All told, we had about 6 bags of food leaving there. All for free. Where do these people come from? Oh yeah. KalamaZOO.
We returned to the boat, and hit the sack. For a bit anyway. Shortly after our return, I was awakened by a knocking noise. It was the keel, gently bumping the bottom of the creek. A few things had happened that we didn’t count on: one, the tide wasn’t all the way out when we thought it was. Not a big deal though, since it varies about 3 feet total, and we were in about four feet of water when it was mostly out. We only draw about 2 feet, so we had some wiggle room. The other factor though, was that what looked like a little dead end inlet really was an actual creek. Not like we know it where the water flows one way, but more like, this is a path for the water to run through while some big swamp somewhere fills and empties. Dead end, my butt. Anyway, what had happened is that we didn’t count on so much water moving through this creek. It made the boat swing way to one side, even while the tide was low, and then it got lower, causing it to bottom out. To further exacerbate the problem, the cold front had started, so the wind had swung to the north now, and we were pinned to the gradually deepening south side of the creek. It’s always worse to ground out where the depth changes gradually, because the lateral forces on the boat can take you way further up on the land, counting the ups and downs of waves, than you could have if you just got pinned against a steep grade. So, needless to say, while Ruth gently slept, I gently wept.
Just kidding. I did have to get up though, and from 12:30 a.m. to 2:00, I was out there running the motor this way and that, trying to swing the boat out of it, to no avail. The other tactic was to go out and walk the anchor out into the deep water, and then back on the boat, tighten the line around a winch that I cleverly installed before our trip while trying to rock the boat, rev the engine, or whatever else. To no avail.
I gave up, and went to bed. Ruth, after all this racing of engine, splashing as I jump in and out of the boat, slamming of anchor, rattling of chain on the deck, swearing, yelling oaths at the sea gods, and on and on, wakes up to say “hey, I must have been asleep.” Now that, my friends is what you call good timing.
Well, then she got up to use the bathroom. A minute later, everything changed. Suddenly, the waves started crashing in at the rocks at the front of the creek. It was strange, because normally, these things are gradual. But anyway, it got suddenly very rough inside there, and the boat starts beating against the edge of the creek, and the rock that forms it. Desperate, we are now both trying to haul the damn boat out of there. After two and a half more hours of mucking about till 4:30, dragging anchors this way and that, tightening winches, revving engine, swearing oaths and just swearing in general, we are out in the center of the creek, or moreso, anyway. We put out three anchors 120 degrees apart, and turn in.
“Coming in here was MY idea!” is what I had said. Famous last words. Let that be a lesson: don’t ever brag credit for an idea, because the moment you do, you’ll find out that it’s your undoing. And don’t ever, EVER do it to be snide to your wife. Lesson learned. Goodnight all.
Some Hawk's nest photos
Editor's Note: I had photos that corresponded to this particular blog entry, as well as the next two, but can't seem to upload them. Keep an eye out for 'em later, blogfans! -Ed
HAWK’S NEST, CAT ISLAND. THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 2008
Jack the mackalack here. The Jackalope. You ever hear that song that Steve Earle did, a Supersuckers cover- “Creepy Jackalope Eye?” It’s pretty good. Anyway, we’re here on ol’ Cat Island. We had smooth sailin’s the other day when we came up here, crossed most of it before noon, having set out at like 8 or something. It was too early to understand the concept of time, but it was understood well enough to know it was pretty damn early. So, the massive waves we were afraid of did not materialize, maybe just a few swells in the beginning, so it was very pleasant. I guess the fourth time’s the charm, having been turned back at Cape Santa Maria the previous three times due to big waves, lightning storms, howling wind, yadda yadda yadda.
So, we got here, and came into the fancy pants resort to see what was about, and caught some of the primaries. They had an “honor bar,” which is fun if you’ve never been to one. It’s where you get your own beer, or whatever, and mark it down on as a hash mark on a sheet of paper while the staff stand around and watch t.v. like twenty feet away. Well, fun anyway except that the beer cooler is not grounded, and has a nice shock in store for you if you touch it. Just push the door with a napkin, and reach in and grab the beer without touching the sides. Kind of like “Operation,” the wacky doctor’s game. Except this is better, because you get to drink beer while you play. Well, I don’t know what your childhood was like. In my family, we didn’t drink beer at that age. I’ll try not to judge you though. And the primaries were on the giant 12 foot t.v. they had in the lobby, and these nice people came in with smoked kingfish and crackers in a huge bowl, that was awesome.
Anyway, they had that there “honor” bar, and it seemed like so much fun going back and getting those drinks, and making your own, and whatnot, that I spose I got a little carried away with myself, and got what you might call “a wee bit tipsy.” The last drink I made was a white Russian, and the German owner of the resort was insisting I put three hash marks on the paper while I grinned and told him “DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT MY FRIEND!” Over and over. Ah, I’m a humble man. Well, now I am, after that anyway. The people who brought the dip disappeared, I think because I ate like three quarters of this massive bowl of kingfish dip in about five minutes, and put a serious dent in their crackers on top of it. And then this guy Patrick walked us out to the dinghy to make sure I got in on the inside of it, and I’m even humbler for that. Oh, and Ruth informed me, while I’m on the subject, that I misjudged my entry into the dinghy, and went, ass over tit, into the drink. That explains why I woke up wearing different clothes. So, that’s one time each now, we’ve fallen off the boat and into the water. Well, we won’t count the times I did before we knew each other.
The next day, if you could believe it, I felt like hell. So I did nothing. No, wait. Scratch that. I cleaned the fridge. That was my day.
Today, though, we got up at the crack of ten with a jaunty spring in our step, and zipped out to the deep water to do some diving. Well, me anyway. Ruth drove. It was great though, because today, we did things a bit differently. She trolled around with me on the back of the dinghy, holding the spear and the dive flag in my scuba gear, and when I saw something cool, I would drop off and she would hang out while I dove about, a-bubblin’. I did shoot a parrotfish, (I think that’s what it was) and got it right through the spine so the struggle was over really fast. This thing was beautiful, we took a bunch of pictures and all that.
Immediately, of course, I went to the surface, and dispatched the fish to the boat, and we went to a new area. The smell of blood must have been on me though, or else we didn’t go far enough, because the next time I dropped off, this really big barracuda started following me, like four feet long. Ugly bastard. He was really close too, like ten feet or something, and really curious, so much so that I hollered for Ruth to pull around, and while she did, I pulled back the sling and got ready to take a crack at him. Not like I’m any match for a fish that goes 70 mph with razor sharp teeth, but holding a spear made me feel a bit better. Those things scare me. I won’t lie. I’m afraid of barracudas. It’s official.
We ate the fish for dinner. it for dinner. Or most of it anyway. I took the head and stuck a big hook in it, and threw it over the side to try to land a grouper or something, but the jerk on the line yanked the spool right out of my hand and I lost it all over the side. Luckily, it floated, so it was easy enough to find once I went in after it. If you don’t know, I’ll tell you something: I’m a silly, silly man.
Tomorrow the plan is to take this 80 lb. line and tie about ten hooks in a series on it, with all kinds of hulas, fish heads, ballyhoos, and maybe some bedknobs and possibly even some broomsticks, and slap that sucker on the downrigger and troll around at the “wall,” where the dropoff goes to 1000 feet. We’ll see what happens. We haven’t really tried too hard at this fishing business, but this seems like the right time to get motivated.
Oh yeah. We got our XM radio working again, since we got an antenna on Long Island. Woohoo!
On another note: it’s funny, there’s a whole bunch of things about my life that are more in focus now more than they were before. Most of them were already there, but this trip, and being so far away and so isolated has underscored them.
I’ve realized work is a different thing than I used to think it was. I used to think you get a job and work, all the time, because that’s just what you do, and that’s it. Until your 65, then you sit. Now, I think it’s something I’ll do enough so I can eat, and only as much as I need to, and enjoy it. And never any longer on some kind of “career path” type work. Nope, nothing I can’t walk away from if it doesn’t suit me. I want to enjoy all the work I do from now on, not endure it, as in the past, where I saw it as “trading hours of my life for dollars.” I’m done doing that. I’ll still work, of course. I just won’t be trying to take over the world like I was a few years ago. Now, I’m going to just do it on my terms, as much is needed, but not more. And more. And more. And more. Just what is needed, and makes sense. Not out of compulsion to fill every hour of the day with it, as before.
I’ve decided I never want to be so far from my family again, not for so long. This was wonderful, this trip. Of course, I’m glad we did it. But I don’t think I ever want to be so far from my parents, my siblings, my in-laws, my friends. And our dogs. I don’t ever want to spend another 6 months without looking at those smiling dog tongues, until the day they’re taken from me by time. And until then, I don’t want to waste the time I have, by not experiencing them every minute I can.
And that goes for the rest of you too.
I don’t ever want to stop coming here, to the Bahamas. I like it too much. It suits me. It’s like New Orleans. When I first got there, it was like being home. It’s the only way to describe it. It will always be a home to me, even though I may never live there again. As will Kalamazoo, as will Shady Rest, as will this boat. I think I’m going to add the Bahamas to the list of places that I call home, wherever this boat is anchored here. Another place that feels like home is at Burt’s house, in Michigan. And Tom and Becky’s house in Kalamazoo. And there are others. Places people have made me so welcome, they have made their home my home, and made me really believe that it was. And so, I guess, even though it’s something I’ve said, and known for a long time, when I tried to talk you into coming to visit us in New Orleans, or up North at Shady Rest, or now, as I’m asking you to come visit the boat if you ever are so inclined, it is because just like I feel like your home is my home, my home is also yours, and I would like you to visit. These places are too good to stay away from, and too good to keep to ourselves.
Ruth is good by the way. She’s healing nicely. I think in a week or maybe a bit more she will have new skin where she was burned, pretty much all over. She’s doing great. I know you guys worry, but try not to. She’s doing well, and right now, sleeping like a lil’ baybay.
Speaking of which: David said today that Michelle is showing now. Is that awesome or what? I said “are you going to stick with the name Suvay?” and he said “well, I haven’t been told otherwise.”
Attaboy!
HAWK’S NEST, CAT ISLAND. THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 2008
Jack the mackalack here. The Jackalope. You ever hear that song that Steve Earle did, a Supersuckers cover- “Creepy Jackalope Eye?” It’s pretty good. Anyway, we’re here on ol’ Cat Island. We had smooth sailin’s the other day when we came up here, crossed most of it before noon, having set out at like 8 or something. It was too early to understand the concept of time, but it was understood well enough to know it was pretty damn early. So, the massive waves we were afraid of did not materialize, maybe just a few swells in the beginning, so it was very pleasant. I guess the fourth time’s the charm, having been turned back at Cape Santa Maria the previous three times due to big waves, lightning storms, howling wind, yadda yadda yadda.
So, we got here, and came into the fancy pants resort to see what was about, and caught some of the primaries. They had an “honor bar,” which is fun if you’ve never been to one. It’s where you get your own beer, or whatever, and mark it down on as a hash mark on a sheet of paper while the staff stand around and watch t.v. like twenty feet away. Well, fun anyway except that the beer cooler is not grounded, and has a nice shock in store for you if you touch it. Just push the door with a napkin, and reach in and grab the beer without touching the sides. Kind of like “Operation,” the wacky doctor’s game. Except this is better, because you get to drink beer while you play. Well, I don’t know what your childhood was like. In my family, we didn’t drink beer at that age. I’ll try not to judge you though. And the primaries were on the giant 12 foot t.v. they had in the lobby, and these nice people came in with smoked kingfish and crackers in a huge bowl, that was awesome.
Anyway, they had that there “honor” bar, and it seemed like so much fun going back and getting those drinks, and making your own, and whatnot, that I spose I got a little carried away with myself, and got what you might call “a wee bit tipsy.” The last drink I made was a white Russian, and the German owner of the resort was insisting I put three hash marks on the paper while I grinned and told him “DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT MY FRIEND!” Over and over. Ah, I’m a humble man. Well, now I am, after that anyway. The people who brought the dip disappeared, I think because I ate like three quarters of this massive bowl of kingfish dip in about five minutes, and put a serious dent in their crackers on top of it. And then this guy Patrick walked us out to the dinghy to make sure I got in on the inside of it, and I’m even humbler for that. Oh, and Ruth informed me, while I’m on the subject, that I misjudged my entry into the dinghy, and went, ass over tit, into the drink. That explains why I woke up wearing different clothes. So, that’s one time each now, we’ve fallen off the boat and into the water. Well, we won’t count the times I did before we knew each other.
The next day, if you could believe it, I felt like hell. So I did nothing. No, wait. Scratch that. I cleaned the fridge. That was my day.
Today, though, we got up at the crack of ten with a jaunty spring in our step, and zipped out to the deep water to do some diving. Well, me anyway. Ruth drove. It was great though, because today, we did things a bit differently. She trolled around with me on the back of the dinghy, holding the spear and the dive flag in my scuba gear, and when I saw something cool, I would drop off and she would hang out while I dove about, a-bubblin’. I did shoot a parrotfish, (I think that’s what it was) and got it right through the spine so the struggle was over really fast. This thing was beautiful, we took a bunch of pictures and all that.
Immediately, of course, I went to the surface, and dispatched the fish to the boat, and we went to a new area. The smell of blood must have been on me though, or else we didn’t go far enough, because the next time I dropped off, this really big barracuda started following me, like four feet long. Ugly bastard. He was really close too, like ten feet or something, and really curious, so much so that I hollered for Ruth to pull around, and while she did, I pulled back the sling and got ready to take a crack at him. Not like I’m any match for a fish that goes 70 mph with razor sharp teeth, but holding a spear made me feel a bit better. Those things scare me. I won’t lie. I’m afraid of barracudas. It’s official.
We ate the fish for dinner. it for dinner. Or most of it anyway. I took the head and stuck a big hook in it, and threw it over the side to try to land a grouper or something, but the jerk on the line yanked the spool right out of my hand and I lost it all over the side. Luckily, it floated, so it was easy enough to find once I went in after it. If you don’t know, I’ll tell you something: I’m a silly, silly man.
Tomorrow the plan is to take this 80 lb. line and tie about ten hooks in a series on it, with all kinds of hulas, fish heads, ballyhoos, and maybe some bedknobs and possibly even some broomsticks, and slap that sucker on the downrigger and troll around at the “wall,” where the dropoff goes to 1000 feet. We’ll see what happens. We haven’t really tried too hard at this fishing business, but this seems like the right time to get motivated.
Oh yeah. We got our XM radio working again, since we got an antenna on Long Island. Woohoo!
On another note: it’s funny, there’s a whole bunch of things about my life that are more in focus now more than they were before. Most of them were already there, but this trip, and being so far away and so isolated has underscored them.
I’ve realized work is a different thing than I used to think it was. I used to think you get a job and work, all the time, because that’s just what you do, and that’s it. Until your 65, then you sit. Now, I think it’s something I’ll do enough so I can eat, and only as much as I need to, and enjoy it. And never any longer on some kind of “career path” type work. Nope, nothing I can’t walk away from if it doesn’t suit me. I want to enjoy all the work I do from now on, not endure it, as in the past, where I saw it as “trading hours of my life for dollars.” I’m done doing that. I’ll still work, of course. I just won’t be trying to take over the world like I was a few years ago. Now, I’m going to just do it on my terms, as much is needed, but not more. And more. And more. And more. Just what is needed, and makes sense. Not out of compulsion to fill every hour of the day with it, as before.
I’ve decided I never want to be so far from my family again, not for so long. This was wonderful, this trip. Of course, I’m glad we did it. But I don’t think I ever want to be so far from my parents, my siblings, my in-laws, my friends. And our dogs. I don’t ever want to spend another 6 months without looking at those smiling dog tongues, until the day they’re taken from me by time. And until then, I don’t want to waste the time I have, by not experiencing them every minute I can.
And that goes for the rest of you too.
I don’t ever want to stop coming here, to the Bahamas. I like it too much. It suits me. It’s like New Orleans. When I first got there, it was like being home. It’s the only way to describe it. It will always be a home to me, even though I may never live there again. As will Kalamazoo, as will Shady Rest, as will this boat. I think I’m going to add the Bahamas to the list of places that I call home, wherever this boat is anchored here. Another place that feels like home is at Burt’s house, in Michigan. And Tom and Becky’s house in Kalamazoo. And there are others. Places people have made me so welcome, they have made their home my home, and made me really believe that it was. And so, I guess, even though it’s something I’ve said, and known for a long time, when I tried to talk you into coming to visit us in New Orleans, or up North at Shady Rest, or now, as I’m asking you to come visit the boat if you ever are so inclined, it is because just like I feel like your home is my home, my home is also yours, and I would like you to visit. These places are too good to stay away from, and too good to keep to ourselves.
Ruth is good by the way. She’s healing nicely. I think in a week or maybe a bit more she will have new skin where she was burned, pretty much all over. She’s doing great. I know you guys worry, but try not to. She’s doing well, and right now, sleeping like a lil’ baybay.
Speaking of which: David said today that Michelle is showing now. Is that awesome or what? I said “are you going to stick with the name Suvay?” and he said “well, I haven’t been told otherwise.”
Attaboy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Subscribe To
Posts
All Comments
