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.
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