Little Farmers Cay – 2 kilometres walked, 3 miles in dinghy, 1 kilometre snorkelled, 1 lobster, 2 conch
If anchoring ever gets easy, you’re probably forgetting something.
Last night I looked closely at our anchor alarm, charts, and forecasted wind direction, and started getting a little worried. The wind was expected to shift eastwards, pushing us into the lee shore. The charts showed a depth of 4.9’ close to the edge, but with a high tide at midnight I thought we’d be okay as that would give us an additional two to three feet of water. As a precaution, we pulled in fifteen feet of chain, in the utter blackness of the night, still leaving 75 feet out, giving us a scope of about 5 to 1. Still, not a great idea anchoring on a lee shore, but there weren’t many other better options in this anchorage.
I woke up many times during the night to check the anchor alarm, and was pleased to see five feet of water beneath the keel even after the east wind had shifted us as close to the shore as it could, and it was blowing hard. Still, a fitful sleep, as I dreamed of vicious sailboat groundings instead of tropical paradise lobster hunting.
We decided not to sail today as the winds were strong and would be directly in our face, making for a very lumpy ride. Instead, we went snorkelling. I took Ana and Stella (young Anna opted for a sleep-in) back to where I had been lobster hunting the previous day and we beached the dinghy then swam in and snorkelled the shoreline. The water was rough, and there was a slight current, so conditions were not ideal, but the girls enjoyed it. I had my spear and ventured further out and for longer in search of lobsters. At first I could not find any, but I did get two beautiful large conch which I snatched up from the bottom and cradled under my arm as I continued searching. I came across one promising rock ledge and was suddenly faced with a giant lobster in twelve feet of water, with his large claws out, half his wiggly feet in view, his spiny head, and his beady black emotionless eyes, just looking around, like he owned the place. The rest of his body was hidden under the rock ledge. I wasn’t sure how to proceed as it’s tough to stalk lobster with an armful of conch. I swam into the shallows and dropped the conch in a rock trough for safe keeping (little chance of escape as the typical conch getaway speed is 8 MPY – Metres Per Year) then returned to the lobster, dove down, snuck up behind it, and grabbed one of his large antennae. He immediately propelled himself backwards beneath the ledge and completely disappeared from view. He had found an excellent hiding spot.
I gathered up my conch, did the long return swim to the dinghy, seeing a sea turtle along the way, and showed the girls my catch. Conch fritters were back on the menu. We returned to SeaLight, had a spot of lunch, then all dinghy’d over to the Farmers Cay Yacht Club. I had taken an early morning run there and found a great club with a restaurant, bar, pool table, beautiful lounge area, and most importantly, a decent laundry facility. The only problem was the town water supply had been shut off temporarily to repair a leak, but it was back on by the time we arrived.
We tied up the dinghy at the fixed dock, went inside, met the cast of characters including the bartender and his 90 year dad who looked 60, and got our two loads of laundry going then started our walk into town. Little Farmers Cay is a skinny island, dry, with one main road and a few dirt cross streets, and ample greenery. We walked into the town centre, which consisted of a small convenience store (closed, but we peeked in the window and saw just a few cans on the shelves), a restaurant, seaside bar (open, but empty except for the one nice lady tending bar), a couple of small gift shacks, and a public dock with a small gang of Bahamians drinking Kaliks and running an endless supply of conch through the conch cracking machine, creating a large pile ready for a deep fryer, somewhere. It was the most epic Bahamian Family Island scene I could imagine. A signpost at the street junction had wooden arrows pointing to many more venues – a health clinic, police, and more restaurants, none of which we could see so they must have been hidden down side streets.
I walked down the dock to chat with the conch crackers and asked what was in the submerged cage we could see in the water.
“Lobster,” said the bloke guarding the pile of conch.
“Live lobsters, huh,” I said, then was distracted by the big ray and turtle cruising in the water beneath me. “How much for a lobster?”
“Forty-five,” he said without hesitation. Good thing I had started developing some rudimentary lobster hunting skills.
Having conquered downtown, we wandered back and stopped at Denzel’s, a local artist, wiry and wet, who motioned for us to come in after his two pot cake dogs alerted him to our presence. With a wide smile and modest collection of teeth, Denzel showed us his home – a concrete bunker with a tv playing religion and a cot on the ground, then his canvas paintings of dark figures smoking weed, island trees, and swirly people, then walked us around his property, which was filled with fruit trees.
“If I want to eat, I need to grow it myself!” he told us, then pulled two small pomegranate fruit from a tree and gave one to each of the girls.
“Here, you try this,” he said to Ana after pulling a mushy grey fruit from the branch of a different tree and handing it to her. “It’s called noni. It’s good for your health, for everything…but you might not like the taste.” That was the universal signal to push Dad to the front of the line as the sacrificial taste tester. Ana passed me the mystery fruit and I took a small bite. It was hard to identify the full bouquets of exotic flavours, but I was definitely picking up hints of monkey rectum, child vomit, putrified shark, rotten cheese, and toilet sludge.
“Mmmmm, good!” I said, then reconsidered. “Actually Denzel, I can’t eat the rest of this, no matter how good it is for me. I believe noni is an acquired taste.”
“I understand my man, but here – take two unripe ones in case you develop a taste for them.”
We took the stinkfruit (which Ana promptly tossed into the bush once we were out of sight) and bought a bag of pomegranates from Denzel but no art, explaining that the wall space in our boat was very limited. He understood and seemed happy with the twelve bucks for the fruit.
Back at the yacht club we swapped the clothes from the washers into the dryers then continued inside for a round of drinks. I had a long chat with the bartender and regret that I did not ask him his name nor offer my own. He supplied the ladies with the wifi password which kept them fully occupied with Tik Tok, Instagram, and texting for the duration of the dry cycle. I could have easily stayed for five more Kaliks in this fine establishment, but the remaining minutes of precious daylight were limited and I had one more thing yet to do.
We dinghy’d back to SeaLight, the girls unloaded themselves, and I grabbed my snorkeling gear and returned to the scene of the Giant Lobster, desperate for one more attempt on his life. I felt like I must be rapidly developing some fisherman skills as I dropped the anchor of the dinghy nearly on top of the exact location, which I realized after flopping over the side and immediately seeing the magnificent specimen in the exact hole and position where we had first met. As my previous attempt to grab his antenna failed, this time I planned to load the spear with as much pressure as I could and fire a shot at his spiny hard head, hoping it would penetrate for a fast kill and easy retrieval. I took a breath and swam down, equalizing along the way, then stretched the rubber of the spear and locked it with my thumb. The lobster looked at me with no fear, antennae solid, legs secure, possibly bracing for impact. I held out my arm and aimed down the spear. The underwater world was dim, as the sunlight was fading fast, but I could see him clearly. I pointed the spear at his head and released my thumb. The spear shot through the water and pranged off a rock just below his chin. He disappeared in a cloud of dust, never to be seen again. I was devastated.
As a consolation prize, I swam to a nearby rock ledge where I had seen a lobster yesterday. Sure enough, there was a small antenna poking out. I swam down, released a shot, and landed it perfectly. I pulled the lobster out- it was a small one, still legal, but not stunningly huge like my intended target. Still, I did not have to suffer the indignity of returning to the girls empty handed.
I had one more look for Big Daddy before leaving, and even tried to pry him out with my spear. But he was dug in deep, safe from the likes of me. I wished him well, accepted defeat, had a last look around this incredible coral reef, then returned to the boat for our final evening in Farmers Cay.
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