and the short story continues...Chapter One - Facebook Follies - The crossing... The crossing to the Bahamas’ bank took 12 hours at the 15 knots top speed Dick’s boat “Jembor V” could maintain. The Gulf Stream Current opposed by the westerly winds makes for an ocean chop that can test the sturdiest of sea legs. Mine get worse with time, even after the overdose of Bonine with a beer chaser. The diesel engines of 63 foot shrimper-turned house boat droned on throughout the night, punctuated by the squeaking and clicking of the auto pilot as it kept us on course for “Memory Rock”, our waypoint of choice to enter the calm turquoise waters of the Bahamas’ bank. As each swell of the waves pitched the boat up, a north bound chop buffeted the hull, rocking everything inside the cabin not tied down to and fro. Each of us took a turn at the helm, watching for container ships and their tenders through the fog and mist one minute, ducking kamikaze flying fish headed for the captain’s berth windshield the next. Coffee was brewed, toaster waffles and PBJ’s served, and I did my best not to fall overboard as I hugged the stern gunwale when not on my watch, cursing my inner ear and retching in tandem with our pitching hull, much to the pleasure of Jimmy and Capt’n, both old navy boys, who mocked my small boat sailing days in Long Island Sound. They keep a plastic toy 9mm pistol in the gear box by the stern and hand to those poor souls like me who would rather end it all than feel that wave of nausea over and over again – and sometimes I wished it was real – just for a second – to scare that seasickness away. But alas, only time, smooth water, or a Dramamine suppository can cure that illness. Luckily time was on my side. As dawn approached, we left the deep blue of the Gulf Stream and crossed on to the bank. The waters seemed to flatten like a spring snow swept field– undulating, but glassy, with just a hint of ripples from the cool morning breeze. As we steered north toward Walker’s Cay, you could see the coral heads dotting the white sand sea floor interspersed with dark patches of sea grass. Dolphins played in the bow wake, frigate birds hung aloft in the warming air, and the engines purred as the hull cut the turquoise glaze. And I found part of my sea legs again, as I sipped my coffee, trying to lift my mind out of my Bonine stupor. I watched Dick in the captains berth (he hates being called Richard), marking the chart, checking the Lowrance navigation and the hazy glass covered dials in front of the wheel. Funny, he looks so much younger when he’s playing boat captain and busying himself with the myriad of chores necessary to keep an older ship running. Jembor V has a unique odor combining teak wood, diesel fuel, fish smell, salt water, and sea air, and for some reason, it is not unpleasant. It smells like freedom and adventure and I always get a whiff of it on his clothes when we meet at the airport in West Palm Beach – he lives on the boat – and picks me up for the short drive to the slip at the Jib Yacht Club, Dick’s floating home. For an old guy, he’s in decent shape, not an ounce of fat on his body - probably from all the free dive spear fishing he does – but his bleached grey hair gives his age away. Still, Dick is a good friend and we’ve shared many fun times on his boat – most of them just sitting in the slip and enjoying a drink on the afterdeck. Lots of drinks – and he can make ‘em – what that guy can do with a pineapple, rum, and a blender! He does alright for an amateur inventor – the “Reef Raider” was his last claim to fame: a 15 foot, portable, glass bottomed, pontoon boat with a Bimini Top, and a battery operated trolling motor, for folks who just don’t like to snorkel, but want to experience the wonders of the reefs. So he spends his away time at boat and dive shows, taking orders and romancing cougars, and keeps himself busy with production when he’s home in Jupiter – nice life… Walkers Cay came into view at mid-morning, and we found an empty mooring just outside the harbor, raised the Bahamian Burgee next to our old glory, and waited for the customs agent to zip out on his 18 foot Boston Whaler. Donning a crisp white shirt, ribbon striped blue pants, and the ever present badge and official customs hat, the officer greeted us with the whitest smile I’ve ever seen and a cheery “good morning sirs!” We shook hands, handed him a fresh cup of coffee – an expected but not asked for custom – and sat down for the customs chat and passport inspection. Jimmy, who knew this customs agent from previous entries, got a ride back into the harbor with him, and you could see the back slapping and hear their guffaws clearly across the water’s sounding board. Dick giggled, turned to Capt’n and me and said, “Yup, Jimmy’s reconnoitering for us with Mr. McIntosh. He’ll have the scoop on all those Sport Fisherman slipped up there…and find out what “talent” is in town. We can scope it out tonight at dinner at the “Trap.” The Lobster Trap - Walker’s Cay answer to the Miami Beach Night Club scene, albeit…a little smaller and not so up-to date. But fun is fun and things can get a little edgy there when the rum starts flowing and the 80’s and 90’s music starts pumping – and the locals, divers, and the ex-pats start playing pool, dancing, and generally getting sloppy drunk. That’s where we met Bushy and things got…well…not normal – not bad at that point, but I should have seen the small craft warning flags.
Posted on: Mon, 05 Aug 2013 00:25:01 +0000
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