Cat Island and Black Point
Floating around the Bahamas is proving to be a rather pleasant exercise indeed. Who needs the Caribbean? We met a British couple in Cat Island who just came from the Caribbean, and they said the Bahamian waters are much clearer and more beautiful. That isn’t to say we’ve given up in our quest to sail beyond familiar waters. At this juncture, our intentions are to return to the Chesapeake Bay this summer to work and enjoy the company of friends and family. In the fall we shall cast off our lines again and head south.
Our last day in George Town we called the pump-out boat for an appointment. For those unfamiliar with this service, it consists of sucking the sewage from one’s holding tank into the pump-out boat’s tank. When the pump-out man arrived at Mary T I was so glad to see him that, as I was reaching out to grab the line he was offering me to attach our two boats, I fell into the water between his boat and ours. I was not hurt at all and, with his aid, clambered quickly onto his boat. I rewarded him with a $5 tip for the rescue at sea.
After that undignified maneuver, we escaped from the regatta madness in George Town and sailed to Cat Island, about 50 miles to the northeast. Cat Island is a very quiet place littered with abandoned homes and never to be completed resorts. Much of the population has gone elsewhere in search of higher education and employment opportunities. Those who remain are friendly and welcoming and let you know how grateful they are that you have come for a visit. Our first day there in New Bight, we lunched at a shack on the beach and I played 3 or 4 games of backgammon with an older gentleman named Pompey.
The next day we climbed Mt. Alvernia to visit the “Hermitage.” Rising 206 feet above sea level, Mt. Alvernia is the highest point in all of the Bahamas. (And I thought Iowa was flat). The Hermitage was the retirement home of British Catholic Priest, Father Jerome, who designed and built the place. Though constructed in the 1940s, it looks like something out of the middle ages in miniature.
Everything about the place is diminutive - the tiny chapel for one, the little wooden platform for his bed, the low doorways… Father Jerome couldn’t have been much over 5 feet tall. There was no plumbing or electricity. He wanted just a simple monk’s life in his last years. Ascending the stone steps to the Hermitage, one passes the 14 stations of the cross carved into the rock of Mt. Alvernia. I am not a Catholic, but I was truly moved by this place. I felt the soul of a true contemplative, an enlightened man.
On the road leading to the Hermitage, we noticed a huge garden with ripe tomatoes that were in need of harvesting. Many had already fallen off the vines and were rotting on the ground. We couldn’t resist tasting a couple of little ones and found them delicious. I was horrified to think they would all go to waste, so I set out to discover the owner. It wasn’t difficult as the first person I asked was the daughter of the gardener. She explained that her mother was in Nassau and therefore could not harvest the tomatoes. (Is her mother the only one in all of New Bight who knows how to pick a tomato)? “So they’ll just go to waste. That’s such a shame,” I hinted, to no avail. We were actually at this woman’s house/bakery to buy some fresh bread, so we picked out a loaf of raisin bread and she generously offered us a bag full of tomatoes, which someone in the family had managed to gather.
The next day I returned to her house with the proposal that if she’d let me pick some tomatoes I would bring them to her and she could take as many as she liked and I would keep the rest. She agreed so I trudged back to the field and picked at least 25 pounds of tomatoes. I didn’t even put a dent in the crop. I was gone so long that the woman sent her sister Olive to check on me. Olive offered to give me a ride back and I foolishly refused because I hadn’t yet filled up the container I’d brought. Plus I was a little wounded, because it meant they didn’t quite trust me.
Back at their house, Olive and sister only took a small amount, so now Kenny and I were saddled with a mountain of tomatoes. Back on the boat we started sorting out the damaged ones with which I immediately made a sauce. The hearty variety we kept out for salads and the rest we froze. I filled three bags and delivered them to the three boats anchored nearest to us. Needless to say, by the cocktail hour I was thoroughly exhausted.
One day on Cat Island, we rented a car so we could see the whole island. Cat Island is largely uninhabited, with tiny settlements scattered about, but there are some nice views driving along the water. It’s about 45 miles long and the average width is about one mile. There’s not a lot to see, but we discovered three really cute resorts. We ate lunch at one of them called Greenwood. It was German owned and the waiters were “interns” and totally clueless, but nice. Maybe they’d never actually eaten in a restaurant before. It’s the only resort on the ocean side (as opposed to the shallower bank side) and the sea was really roiling that day.
Our favorite spot was called Cocktails by the Sea up in Arthur Town, Sidney Poitier’s birthplace. It was a cute-as-a-button little watering hole hanging out over the water. The bartender/owner was a consultant for one of the big political parties in the Bahamas and he talked a historical political blue streak mostly to some other customers, but we got an earful at the end. That isn’t to say he wasn’t interesting. Before we left he told us there was some relic in the cemetery that gave credence to the argument that Cat Island was Columbus’s first landfall. We didn’t quite understand, but we went to the cemetery anyway and found nothing related to Columbus.
Our last stop on the road trip was Fernandez Bay resort. We were ushered to the lovely seaside bar in the round and told it was serve yourself. The young American lady explained where things were and how we should write down what we consumed. After she walked away we looked at the prices posted on a beam. They were higher than the normal prices, so we decided we’d rather serve ourselves on our boat where the drinks were already paid for.
Our last two nights in Cat Island we moved to an anchorage in Old Bight, which was the most deserted anchorage we’d experienced in the Bahamas. Only one other boat showed up for one night and the beach was deserted. A few large never-to-be-completed resort homes were the only signs of humanity.
Departing Cat Island I hadn’t had the line in the water for 15 minutes when we caught another three-footer. Yes, the slaughter continues. This time it was a Little Tunney, of the Tuna family. We were more efficient than last time, but still found the killing unsavory. Rather than two meals for two, we’ll get 3 meals out of this one due to my improved filleting techniques. Next time we’ll hope for four.
Now we’re in Black Point in the Exuma chain. It is one of my favorite settlements in the Bahamas, because it’s still a vibrant village with all generations present. At dusk, the kids play in the street and the grownups all sit around weaving palm fronds. It gives me such a nostalgic feeling for West Africa I just want to sit and soak it in forever. Today there’s a community fundraiser, so as soon as we’re done using the internet, we’ll head over and by lunch to support the community.
The other day here, I kayaked over to a beach and went for a swim. The water was crystal clear and the only one in it besides me was a big old stingray. I swam along parallel to him for about ten minutes and he didn’t seem to mind at all. Most Bahamians don’t go in the water. I think they’ve been told for generations to fear and respect the sea.
Many friends have asked, “What do you guys do all day?” A typical day at anchor goes something like this: Wake up and argue about who is going to get up to turn on the single side band radio for the 6:30 a.m. weather report. Listen intently and write down the relevant bits. After the weather, Kenny does his morning exercises in the 7 ‘x 2′ space in the saloon while I meditate cross-legged on the settee. Then I do my exercises while Kenny finishes up the previous night’s dishes and puts out breakfast items.
We usually listen to the local AM radio at this time which consists of a little news and community announcements like: the power will be shut off temporarily on such and such island and the ladies group at the Baptist Church is having a meeting… Then come the endless death reports, which include naming ALL the relatives of the deceased. People here have huge families - six to eight siblings, 10 children, 16 adopted children, numerous cousins… I’m not exaggerating either.
At 8:20 a.m. it’s time for Corning in the morning. We check in with Corning and Tita on Blessed Spirit on the SSB to see how they’re doing and find out where they’re headed. Then sometimes we switch over to Cruiseheimers Net at 8:30. Boats all over Florida, the Bahamas and the Caribbean call in to give their location. It’s a good way to learn where cruisers you’ve met have gone. Mostly it’s the same old boats calling in just piddling around the Bahamas, but it’s a nice service if you’re trying to get in touch with someone.
After being up for over 2 hours it’s finally time for breakfast out in the cockpit surrounded by beautiful water and other sailboats. Sometimes we have homemade granola for breakfast if I’ve bothered to make any. After breakie, we usually read for a while and drink our tea. Then it’s time to DO SOMETHING. I might go for a kayak and swim while Kenny cleans or fixes something on the boat. If we’re near a town we take the dinghy in for some sightseeing, grocery shopping and fetch water in our jugs for the boat, or look for wi-fi and have lunch.
Around 5:30 it’s time for cocktails on the boat accompanied by Yahtzee and maybe some ukulele playing. Then I retire to the galley to cook dinner while Kenny plays the ukulele and I make up lyrics about our recent adventures. I’ve come to realize I have a natural ineptitude for the ukulele. My fingers simply do not want to make the necessary contortions to play many of the chords. I have to wear an ace bandage on my right arm when I play, because the edge of the body of the uke cuts into me. For a moment I thought of giving it up altogether, but then I figured I’d keep plugging away at it for a while. It’s a good exercise in patience - mostly Kenny’s. It would probably help if I could get a few lessons and had a better ukulele. Still I don’t think I’ll ever be a virtuoso.
By nine o’clock at night we’ve finished dinner and are usually taking our pre-bedtime naps in the cockpit until one of us finally gets up and heads to the V-berth and the other one follows.