We arrived at a place so beautiful it caught me off guard. I'm not sure why I should be surprised by its beauty, it was a crescent beach flanked by mounds of dense vegetation, like many others in the Bahamas. But this place had an aura of distinction about it.
Perhaps we felt differently about it, because we knew that Hawksbill Cay is uninhabited, and as we pulled into its quiet, protected bay we realized we were going to have it all to ourselves. Hawksbill lays within Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park, a protected area that provides a safe haven and replenishment area for the wildlife native to the Bahamas. Fishing or collecting any fauna or flora is strictly prohibited (dead or alive). In fact they ask that you neither take nor leave anything behind. Because of the fishing ban areas surrounding Hawksbill Cay are rich in wildlife and subject to poaching. We think we witnessed a couple of cruisers in the act. Approaching the bay we saw that another boat was anchored in it, but just as we eased toward it, it began to stir. A drenched young man, fresh out of the water, was scrambling around on deck to lift the anchor and the boat left promptly after, ignoring our friendly waves of acknowledgment.
It was their quick escape that made us suspicious, but we couldn't be certain what they were up to so we gave it no further thought and relished the idea of being the only occupants of the island.
Once on the hook we left Rodeo and Katarina cradled in the tranquil cove and made our way to shore. Ever since my parents left Nassau, a few days earlier, we have been enjoying the company of our dear friends, Kathryn and John. In their 60's, these two have the verve of a couple of teenagers and they infect us with their love of life and each other daily. Excited, we pile into their dinghy and head for the beach, eager to explore it. Advancing water has pressed it into a crescent, lapping away at the soft, creamy sand. It rises out of the sea, spreading before us on a gentle incline and disappears into dense shrubs and palm trees that run deep inland, rolling over a hill far on the other side of the island. On either side, the land flanking the cove grows higher, thicker, stretching its welcoming arms around the anchorage. The view is breathtaking. Kath and I jump around, embracing, screaming in excitement: "This is it! This is it!"
Next we ventured over to a sign that informs us about the park's rules of engagement. We are to stay on the path, "taking nothing but pictures, leaving nothing but footprints behind". We respectfully make our way inland, weaving through a network of heavy ground growth and short palms that remarkably sprout from the dry, inhospitable Bahamian soil. Once we reached the hill, the path turned into a porous rocky face we scaled to reach the east side of the island. There the open ocean trashes against powdery sandstone cliffs, carving out what looks like a moonscape into the face of the easter shore.
We spent 3 fun filled days in Hawksbill Cay snorkeling, kayaking and exploring the vacant island. One of the paths led us to crumbling ruins of a Loyalist plantation, high up on a ridge, occupied now only by hermit crabs and curly-tailed lizards. After satisfying our explorer fix we eased Rodeo out and away from this extraordinary cove, and set out to discover what secrets other Exuma Cays may hold.
Trying to get a fair deal in Nassau, when it comes to just about anything, is an art. Trying to get a fair deal from a taxi driver, on way to the airport, in Nassau is something different entirely. My parent's are about to land and we're rushing out of the marina and into the streets to find a cab. We called for one from the marina office, but it's been half an hour and it hasn't shown. Gabe, in a composed, nonchalant way, speaks to a man that spots us walking down the busy East Bay St., offering his taxi services. We try to make it sound like we've been around the block and know what to expect, but I'm sure the driver isn't fooled. Regardless of our apprehension the cool, streets smart Brazilian makes his move. He asks for the going rate and upon hearing the price of $35 he ponders on it. The ball is in his court. He juggles the information on our end for a minute, acting unimpressed and then fires back a counteroffer at the Bahamian. Gabe tells him we'll hire the cab to the airport and back for a discount. It doesn't stick. They both laugh. Another offer comes our way. The Bahamian says he'll do it for $35 each way, but won't charge us to wait at the airport. We think that's a grand idea and pile into the cab. We know that $35 is the going rate and we're prepared to pay that much. We all laugh in agreement. Brazil 1 - Bahamas 0. We engage in friendly chit chat on the 40 minute ride to the airport, as we take in the sun scorched surroundings of greater Nassau. Donna Summer's concert comes through the speakers. The driver tries to keep it low enough for us to carry a conversation, but I can tell that he want's to turn it right up and just get lost in the music. Who can blame him, "It's the last chance for romance tonight".
At the airport parking lot the Bahamian asks us to retrieve a parking stub from the machine at the gate. The Brazilian fumbles in confusion, trying to recover his composure and get back in the game. The Bahamian explains, only now, that if he is to wait for us, we have to pay for his parking. Really? Brazil 1 - Bahamas 1. We don't give it another thought, we're too excited to see my parents and we rush out of the cab and into the terminal.
The Bahamian follows, he wants to make sure we don't forget about our deal. He's really very cordial, inquiring about our backgrounds and our plans. He wants to know about the white and red Polish flag I'm holding. I brought it along to salute my parents on their arrival. He retreats respectfully, saying he'll give us space to welcome them, and will come to collect their bags when they get here. We spot my parents still in the baggage claims, on the other side of a sliding door that expels people in small chunks into the main terminal. I frantically wave the flag to get their attention until they spot us, too. When they finally come out it's a frenzy of hugs, kisses and flashing camera shots.
My parents are glowing with joy. Excited and chatty we make our way towards the cab where my parents enjoy a long coveted cigarette, while the driver arranges luggage in the back of the van. Coming out of the airport we pay $2 for parking and muse over the chain of taxi cabs waiting at the main terminal, ready to pick up fresh fare. We realize we didn't need to have the Bahamian wait for us, we could have just grabbed a different cab back downtown. He didn't give us a deal anyway. Brazil 1 - Bahamas 2. We comfort ourselves and agree that perhaps a different cab driver would not take us back for $35. The parking fee is a small compromise for the benefit of having a car waiting and willing. The important part is that my parents are here. On the ride back the cab is buzzing with conversation interrupted only by glances out the window at the run-down yet bright and cheerful neighborhoods surrounding downtown Nassau. When we arrive at the marina we think we're neck to neck with the Bahamian until he delivers the final kick. We're being charged an additional $6 for the two extra passengers we picked up at the airport. We're surprised, shocked even; that's a rule of the game we were not aware of. The Brazilian gets back on the defense, but it's too late. The Bahamian sneaks it past us, we pay what we owe, and he finishes with a 3:1 victory. Game over.
We pout for a second and then resume our merriment, dismissing our defeat on account of the Bahamian's cunning, a tactic inherent to taxi drivers world wide. We hold no grudges and we don't dwell. It's a "local eat tourist" kinda world, and we understand that. We're here to have fun and we just can't wait to get started.
When it rains, it pours. Once Gabe fixed the windlass he moved on to our dinghy motor, which started spewing oil last time we tried to run it. This we noticed at our last anchorage in Frazer's Hog Cay. Gabe went to mount the outboard motor onto the dinghy, after he dragged that off the fore deck and into the turquoise waters. He barely got his hands on it when the sad little thing started to bleed its vital fluids all over him.
If you know Gabe even just a little you know that he rarely lets a mechanical problem go unattended for long. If it's broken, chances are he can fix it, and he will want to fix it right away. So without further ado Gabe started picking the motor apart looking for a snag. We just had to laugh about the fact that since leaving Halifax there hasn't been a day we didn't need the tool box. We've even changed the location where the tool box is stored several times, trying to place it in the most accessible space, because we have to get it out so often. Getting the motor figured out proved a bit more involved than expected and we decided to put it off until the afternoon, so that we could take advantage of the good weather and explore the area. This meant that without a running dinghy motor we had to row the inflatable lug to and from, with or against the current. It was an exhausting 4 hour excursion around the Frazer's Hog Cay, but we got to see quite a bit of it, well quite a bit of what little there was to see, anyway. Like many other Bahamian islands in this area, it had a rocky coast line, covered with dense succulent shrubs and impenetrable mangroves. Parts of the island were in really poor shape, riddled with garbage and debris from hurricanes past. We explored an abandoned home, brought to ruin by hurricane Helen, now overgrown with wildlife and filled with eerie presence of life undone, interrupted. We didn't linger very long. We found a beach to comb, state of which was not much different than the rest of the island. Unkept and unappreciated. It was not uncommon to see refuse lodged in the mucky sands at shoreline, and I was not at all surprised to see a deflated black plastic bag resting at the bottom of an area I was trudging through. But when the bag twitched a pointy tail, lifted its elegant black form and gracefully drifted away from my feet, I was stunned. With an excited and panicked squeal I signaled to Gabe, who was on shore, that I just stumbled onto a sting ray. But before either one of us could even budge, the ray was on the move. I just stood there, mesmerized, watching the gentle giant make a loop around me and float out of sight, wafting swirls of sand behind it as it went.
Having had our fill of thrills for the day we slowly rowed back to Rodeo, where Gabe took another crack at the motor. A few hours and a complete engine overhaul later, the little 2HP was back in action. Only not for long. It ended up giving up on us once more a week later anyway. Though for now Chief Mechanic Gabe was content with his efforts and ready to tackle the head pump, which started uttering quiet squeaks of protest against constant use and requesting maintenance. The next day, on our sail over to Nassau, Gabe got to the bottom of what was troubling the old pump and he had that running smooth and quiet by the afternoon. Just in time for my parents to arrive in Nassau. They would spend a week aboard Rodeo with us, and a well running head for four live-aboards is a luxury we couldn't afford to give up. The last thing for us to do, upon arriving in Nassau Friday afternoon was to get an internet connection so we could reach my parents, still in Canada, and work out the final details of their arrival on Sunday. This too became an aggravating obstacle as our wi-fi antenna struggled to get a proper signal. Gabe slipped out of his plumber getup, for the time being, and put on his IT thinking cap. There was a glitch in the system and he spent most of the evening and all of following morning troubleshooting the pesky affair, and after all that it turned out we couldn't pick up a free signal anyway and had to spend $10/day for internet from a local provider. Once back in touch with civilization we hailed my parents on Skype to let them know we've arrived in Nassau and will be waiting for them at them at the airport the next day. My parents coming to spend 7 days with us was something I never thought they would have the guts to do, and yet here they were, just as excited to be joining us in our adventures as we were to share them. So excited, in fact, we could barely sleep at night. My parents, fortuitous vagabonds, marooned in a 300 square foot nut shell...with us. It was going to be a fabulous week.
We arrived in Berry Islands around 8 am, trailing fish tackle behind us in the shallow waters of Great Harbour Cay. Since leaving Halifax we attempted to catch fish whenever we could, but without very good results. Gabe even tried his new spear gun at Peanut Island in West Palm Beach, but the only worthy opponents swimming around were Barracudas, and those guys are off limits as they can be poisonous. Needless to say we've been mollifying our cravings for seafood with store bought fillets of this and that until, finally, a bite. And what a bite at that. Gabe leapt up in excitement, screaming "Oh my God, oh my God", when his yoyo contraption sprung to life. The yoyo was a $2 purchase at a nautical flee market in Ft.Pierce. The flee market is an annual event, scheduled for one weekend on grounds of a local rotary club. The event had the misfortune of getting a torrential downpour that very weekend, but we headed over anyway, just to check it out. We were among very few other souls that decided to brave the rain, and we found many of the stands covered up with tarps, unattended, merchandise unavailable. But what we did find we scored for a great price, and walked away with solid teak spice racks and the fishing yoyo Gabe tells me is the way to go in the Caribbean waters. So now that we were in those waters, yoyo deployed and twitching with a live load, we couldn't contain our excitement. At the end of our line, in those Great Harbour shallows, emerged a beautiful Mutton Snapper. The colour of sunset, it shimmered silver, orange and blue as it struggled against the pull of the fishing line. Once on board we doused it with tequila to tranquilize it and Gabe pulled a plug on the purposeful life of the stunning creature. After filleting our 5 kg bounty we had enough fish meat for 4 meals. Not too bad for second day of cruising. Anchored near Bullocks Harbour we later set out on the dinghy to explore what turned out to be an uninspiring shore line that offered no beach access or opportunity for exploring on foot. Oh well. Instead, the calm harbour offered supper, quiet shelter and spectacular views of the night sky. We caught up on sleep in the stillness of it all and set out to seek our next adventure, moving south along Berry Islands and deeper into the heart of the Bahamas.
Yes, yes, yes! It has positively and absolutely been worth it. We finally arrived in the Bahamas on January 8, after two and a half months of plodding along the east coast through hell and high water. We've encountered so many challenges and technical boat issues that had to be dealt with along the way, at times it felt like we would never get here. Each time we handled a problem another arouse. It took a month long maintenance stop-over in Florida, and a lot of hard work, to get the boat to the point where we felt she was ready for worry-free cruising. But more about that in another blog. I really just want to share the excitement of getting into the Caribbean. It marks the beginning of another journey altogether. A journey that will, without a doubt, present its own challenges, but it's the promise land we've been waiting to explore and we're intoxicated with the very idea of being here.
West Palm Beach, FL is where we spent the last 3 weeks getting work done on our boat, and helping our friends John and Kathryn with theirs. It was where we staged our crossing over the gulf stream and into Lucaya on the Grand Bahama Island. We made the passage overnight, timing ourselves so as to make it into Port Lucaya first thing in the morning. On that very still night, under the watchful eye of a nearly full moon, we thrust Rodeo into the tide of the Gulf Stream. With no wind to fill the sails we motored to the rhythmic mutter of the engine and the sputter of water expelled at the stern. It was blissful. Long and tiring, as the Gulf Stream made our progress sluggish, but we arrived on the other side exhilarated and grateful for the uneventful passage.
First order of affairs was checking in with customs to obtain a cruising permit for the Bahamas. The customs office was conveniently located at the Port Lucaya Marina, where we pulled up to the fueling dock and got busy, me filling out the paper work, Gabe fiddling around with the anchor windlass. The mechanism started acting up just as we pulled up the anchor to leave West Palm Beach. There is no end to the repairs required aboard a boat. No end. So much for worry-free cruising. But let's not dwell on that. We had immigration to contend with, and to be honest I was a bit worried that upon inspection, Bahamian immigration might demand more paper work for Pickle than what we had come with. Some cruising posts advised about an immigration permit for any pet brought into the country, which we should have acquired a month ago, as the process takes that long. This we didn't do and I was concerned that it might become an issue. After some research Gabe was fairly certain that the permit is required only if a pet is brought into the country to stay, but I was apprehensive about it nonetheless. Though after handing in the paperwork required and forking our $300 for the pleasure, we got what we came for without so much as a second glance from the immigration officer. Pickle enjoyed a very brief encounter with dry land, rubbing herself on the marina dock, and then we were off again. Having spent the day on anchor outside of Lucaya, we set sail for our next destination, Berry Islands, just before dusk.
Arriving in the warmth of Florida sun was such a relief, Gabe and I got instantly giddy and chipper despite the fatigue. Once inside Jacksonville inlet the wind died and we were soon peeling layers of clothes off, arms and legs relishing long forgotten taste of sunlight. Our minds, on the other hand, relished the serenity of being hemmed in by lush, exotic shorelines of the Florida ICW. Low tree canopies stooping over waterfront properties with droopy moss strewn among their branches, casting an air of mystery onto the lawns below. Then the enthusiastic palm trees bursting into the blue skies above. And everywhere graceful white herons soaking their wiry feet in shallow marshlands. We were captivated. To have arrived in St. Augustine in the afternoon was a cherry on top an already delightful cruising day. This XVI century Spanish settlement is a historic gem studded with beautiful buildings, eclectic shops and restaurants, and scores of museums. Not to mention the churches. Spanish inspired architecture predominates the downtown core where pedestrians plod along narrow, cobblestone alleys, taking in the old world charm. We fell in love instantly.
Our first night ashore turned out to be the night of the most celebrated festival in St. Augustine. The British Night Watch Parade commemorates the British rule over the city between 1763 and 1783. The most memorable part of the British Night Watch is the Grand Illumination. In the olden days, the city of St. Augustine was secured every night by guards marching by lantern light to lock gates. On special occasions or holidays the night watch was made into a festive event. Just like then, today citizens participate and carry a lantern or a candle in the parade. We witnessed the folk of St.Augustine gather at Governor's House to listen as he summons them to rejoice in the Christmas spirit. Many of the people gathered were dressed in period costumes and almost all carried lanterns or candles. Then the parade, lead by a colonial army marching band, proceeded around town's central boulevard and back towards Governor's House.
All weekend St. Augustine was teeming with activity. We spent most of Sunday wondering around the picturesque alleyways, peering through windows of old taverns and boutiques. Most of the buildings in town centre have a distinct colonial flair. Painted wood beam soffits carry fiery red, clay tile rooftops that overhang bright stucco walls. Broad arches lead into cool, shaded courtyards and gardens. Every bit of soil bursting with rich vegetation. A very palatable place indeed, and we enjoyed every bit of it well into the night. Guided by an events post in a local paper we ventured into Fisherman's Wharf Lounge, a local hangout, that advertised an open mic night. We sat in low patio lounge chairs, sipped on cold drinks and got a taste of some real good local talent before returning to Rodeo for the night. St. Augustine was just the kind of thing we set out on this journey to find, an unexpected little treasure of a place that we hope to encounter more of as we carry on.
We've died and gone to heaven. Its name is Florida. After chugging along the North Carolina ICW for a few days we felt like we would never get here so last Wednesday, when the forecast called for moderate seas and favorable winds, we decided to take advantage of the weather window and made a quick run for it offshore. The first 20 miles of the passage were still inside the ICW until we got to Beaufort Inlet, where the strong river currents challenge tides advancing from the open ocean. The narrow channel that lead us out to sea was churned up and foaming with fury. It looked rough out there. We charged at the confused channel knowing that the seas beyond were calm, but the spanking we got getting through sure made us wish we stayed on the ICW. At one point Rodeo took a nose dive between two enormous waves, forcing the one ahead to break over the deck, drenching the entire boat with a loud, hissing splash. We braced ourselves for the impact and ducked under the dodger to avoid getting soaked. What we didn't expect to see is a spray of salt water rushing inside the boat. Gabe jumped down below to see how the water managed to get in there and found our v-berth hatch open. It was very negligent of us not to shut it before we left and we paid for the oversight with a flooded floor and a wet mattress. Thankfully we got nothing but sunny skies and fair winds for the rest of the leg and Rodeo recovered in no time.
We intended to go as far as Hilton Head Island, SC, where we would spend a few days exploring. It's my old stomping ground. I spent a year working on the island 11 years ago. I would have loved to show Gabriel the restaurants I worked at and the spots where I hung out, but the going was so good, we couldn't pass up the opportunity to make an extra 140 miles of progress. This meant another full day and night at sea and we were already feeling weary after two overnights, but we knew that the headway was worth the effort so we pressed on. As the wind clocked from NW to N it slowly began to nudge the waves at our stern, creating the kind of rolling seas that challenge my body and my sanity. I wasn't alone. Gabe was not feeling too stellar either. The problem was that we didn't have enough wind to help us over the waves, not enough for the main or the head sails to do their job anyway. The only option would be to fly a spinnaker, but ours has a few holes in it and needed repairing. Not a big problem. I dusted off my trusty Singer and began patching up the parachute-like fabric of the spinnaker sail. Our Frankenstein was ready to go in no time. We rigged and hoisted it up, watched as it filled with wind, ballooning at the bow, beautiful and proud....then ripped in half just above my stitching line. What a bummer. On top of that, the upper half of the parted spinnaker was left dangling mast high on the halliard. It had to be retrieved, which meant someone had to climb the mast to grab it and pull it down. But what's a mast climb in 6 foot seas to old salts like us? Gabe got suited up in his climbing gear and went for it, slowly clambering up, fighting with the swing of the mast as the boat rocked side to side. Being able to scale the mast proved impossible and we decided that he would hoist me up on the main halliard instead. With two free hands I would not only be able to stop myself from swinging away from the mast, but while at the top I could deal with the flapping remnant of our spinnaker which had now wound itself around the mast. Ascending up it in rolling seas was an interesting trip. Gabe put a preventer around me and the mast to keep me from swinging out, yet l couldn't help but straddle the girth of it all the way up. By the time Gabe lowered me to deck, my thighs were sore and my nerves in shreds, but I still feel like a champ. One more lumpy night later, after an exhausting 3 day/3 night stint from Oriental, NC we were finally headed for land. We rocked into Jacksonville, FL on 10 foot rollers on Saturday morning, ushered into the inlet by a pod of dolphins playfully surfing the giant swells in our path.
