Storming Atlantis, Conch Salads, Hammerheads (2 Sorts), and Revisiting our Bahamian Romance

Nassau – 19 kilometres walked, 5 miles in dinghy

The second thing you need to do after anchoring in a new place (and we put out our second anchor this morning as a backup for the strong winds) is figure out where to stash your dinghy while you explore land. This we found at Nassau Yacht Haven, for the reasonable price of $11/day. We tried to get them to throw in access to their water tap to fill up our jugs, but they said water was reserved for marina guests.

We did the long walk down Bay Street to the tourist area, along the way passing through some rugged patches with many empty buildings and lots, but a newish Rum Cake Factory (which I think our friend Kate cleaned out when they were here). I tried to spot some locations I used to frequent when I lived here – Gold’s Gym and a popular waterside restaurant whose name I’ve forgotten, but they were both gone. My favourite bar – Hammerheads, where all Nassau adventures began and ended, was still there but now called 7 Ships, and it was hard to tell if it was still operating, as it looked even more beat up then when I’d last been here 15 years ago, but somebody had built a second level treehouse that looked cool and was probably great for stunting.

Four cruise ships had arrived overnight, creating a wall of windows and curved steel, and the downtown area swarmed with tourists. I wandered around or found shade leaning against buildings while the ladies explored the shops and Straw Market – a covered shopping area for Bahamian handicrafts that had burned down and been completely rebuilt in 2011. I think they also realized at that time that making handicrafts was not worth the effort so everything I saw there – carvings, dolls, t-shirts, keychains, and various bits of useless knick-knackery (identical from stall to stall) looks to have come from Chinese shipping containers. Ana quickly noticed the knock-off luxury bags were conspicuously absent from the inventory, but it didn’t take her long to find a shifty-eyed vendor who called a lady, who called another lady, exchanged secret handshakes and a quirky Bahamian lip signal, then one of them shuffled Ana across Bay and down a sketchy side street littered with small shops selling phony Gucci and Luis Vuitton purses, of which Ana already owns a hundred, some of which came from these exact ladies. Well, she returned with a tightly wrapped treasure, assuring me she’d paid for the outstanding replica handbag with the Christmas envelope stuffed with juicy, fresh cash, given to her by her parents. I guess John and Maria must have filled it with Bahamian currency this year.

We were getting hungry and the free rum cake samples we were swiping from every tourist store just weren’t filling the gap, and we didn’t want to join the tourist hordes at Senior Frogs for crappy chicken fingers, so we started walking back from whence we came. Along the way we stopped at a huge building called The Restaurant Supply Company and were shocked to discover a warehouse full of every non-fresh food and drink you could imagine, everything a boater would need to provision. Some of it was quite expensive, like the toiletries and breakfast cereal, but many items were the same or cheaper than what we were paying in Florida. We had a good look around, made some mental notes of things we might need before we left Nassau, then picked up a few wobbly pops for the road, including a Sands Grapefruit Radler that Ana loved, so we’ll be grabbing a case of those.

As we passed 7 Ships we saw movement and made eye contact with a young dude who was opening up the doors. He waved us over. We went inside. I said, “Hammerheads!” and gave him a high five.

“You were here when it was Hammerheads?” said the guy, both surprised and happy.

“Yes sir. I spent most of the money I made as a high flying expat right here. And all my family and friends spent all their money here too. All my adventures began and ended at Hammerheads.”

“Mine too, I was a customer here at Hammerheads from the age of 15, then I managed it for 8 years, then took a break and built a successful construction company, and just today I signed a lease for this place and I’m going to bring it back to life.”

“By ‘back to life’ do you mean Hammerhead’s perpetual state of near death?”

“No, I’m actually going to rebuild it and make it look good.”

I was confused. “Are you serious?”

“Yep. My construction team will have it done in two months. It’s going to be nice and bright and family friendly.?

“Family friendly?? What sort of families?”

“Those kind,” he said, then we exchanged a knowing nod. “Let me get you a cold Kalik while we discuss further.”

Alex was a Bahamian, a white one (yes, rare, but they exist), and he had a plan. Though he had not yet been issued a business license, he was operating as a private club and invited us to join the party Friday or Saturday night. While Alex and I chatted, the girls looked around the place, and Ana had a conversation with the only other person there – an artist who was going to be creating the exterior murals.

I was beyond happy that a version of Hammerheads had endured all these years. We’d be back, probably daily.

Alex wasn’t doing any food yet so sent us over to Donny’s conch shack at Potter’s Cay, an area beneath one of the bridges to Paradise Island full of food shacks, and mostly out of reach of the tourist hoards. It smells of fish, is dirty, and eating here is the most authentic Bahamian experience you could have on the island.

We walked past the many conch shacks to Donny’s, which was the last on the right. Donny came right out, offered us drinks, then took our orders. There’s no menu board, he just tells you what he has. I asked for a conch salad, medium heat. Ana took cracked conch. Anna and Stella went for fried red snapper.

The girls sat transfixed as they watched Donny prepare the conch salad. He picked up a conch shell and beat it with the claw of a hammer, creating a hole in just the right spot, then slid in a thin knife, made a small cut, and pulled out the magnificent snail, with its one long pulling claw, two googly eyes perched on the end of flexible antennae, and plump, fleshy firm body. He dropped the snail in a bucket then diced an onion, a tomato, a green pepper, a goat pepper, tapped on some salt, then mixed it up on his cutting board. He then brought over the conch, trimmed off the unusable bits, diced it, and mixed it in with the rest, scooped it all into a plastic tub then doused it with the juice from a fresh lime and orange.

As we were watching this I leaned over and asked Donny if I could have the jelly tube. He smiled, pulled a conch out of the bucket, and passed it over to me. I pulled the thin jelly tube out of its ass (or maybe that is its ass, I’m not sure), held it up in the air, then sucked it back. Then I had another one. And a third. Knowing the Bahamians hold the jelly tube in the highest regard as the most powerful aphrodisiac in the universe, I was expecting a giant tapir-sized erection to burst forth from my shorts and knock everybody over. But maybe that was asking too much, now that I’m in my fifties. Instead, I just started munching on my conch salad, in heaven, as it had been fifteen years since my last one. The experience of eating a conch salad is indescribable, and anyways I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you in case you’re yet to have your first one.

The girls loved their meals, despite it being a whole fried snapper and requiring some extraction work instead of a lame-assed Sysco pressed boneless and tasteless fish fillet. Ana’s cracked conch was equally good, cracked conch being simply the snail beaten with a tenderizing mallet, dipped in batter, and deep fried. Oh, and the French fries? Donny cut up fresh potatoes, one each, and threw them in the frier to golden perfection.

While we ate, the conch man arrived, carrying two strings of conch, and dropped them into Donny’s kitchen, as he spoke in rapid and indecipherable Bahamian patois. The conch man wore a purple toque, dirty shorts, a fishy shirt, had a sleazy gold grill with a damp cigarette clamped in tightly with an incisor, and was highly intoxicated. Donny pulled a Guinness out of his cooler, popped it, and offered it to conch man, who promptly dropped it, shattering glass and beer over our shoes. It was time to go anyway.

I don’t think the girls could fully comprehend or appreciate the truly authentic Bahamian experience they had just enjoyed. But they are just 18, and at 18 I was super dumb and inexperienced so they are way further along than I was. I sincerely hope this incredible trip gifts them the same lifelong love affair both Ana and I have with the Bahamas.

We walked across the bridge to Paradise Island and snuck into the Atlantis Hotel and Casino. It’s always been easy to sneak into Atlantis – we’ve done it dozens of times. I really don’t think the staff care too much.

The girls loved it, I mean really loved it. In the aquariums and outdoor pools we saw reef fish, giant Nassau grouper, nurse sharks, reef sharks, hammerhead sharks, lion fish, lobsters, rays, eels, and turtles. The girls scoped out the waterslides for a future visit and Ana yoinked two Atlantis towels they could use as part of their disguise as guests. It’s not really stealing – we’ll give them back when we’re done with them. Probably. We walked a rope bridge, saw the Michael Jackson suite, checked out the beach, admired the waterfalls, had ice cream at the Barbie-themed restaurant, stopped into the luxury shops, walked the marine village, and, of course, ogled the superyachts moored there. We also showed the kids the exact spot where Ana and I met in 1998, in the casino, at a slot machine. No, it’s not the same slot machine, and the configuration has changed some, but it was the exact spot.

I kissed my beautiful wife, happy that we’d come so far together, and were back here in the place where our lifelong romance began.