Bimini – 9 kilometres walked, 2 miles in dinghy
My early night provided a 5am wake up, and with our first full day in the islands, I was excited to make the most of the hours, especially since Ana was feeling much, much better today.
I did some writing and goofed around with a few things on the boat while the girls got ready, then around 10 we dinghy’d into shore and tied up at the Fisherman’s Village. We walked first to the Hilton hotel to have a look at the lobby and found fabulous washrooms which we used with sailor’s abandon, then strolled through the casino. Both the drinking and gambling age of majority in the Bahamas is 18, giving the girls access to places and activities (technically) forbidden to them in Canada and the US.
From here we headed southwards on the main road, dodging all the reckless cruise ship tourists in their rented golf carts. We arrived at Ms. Antoinette’s, a gift shop we had stopped at yesterday and were charmed by the lovely owner. Today, she let us in on a secret – her alias is “The Black Banana” and she asked us to henceforth refer to her by that name, which we will be sure to do. The Black Banana suggested we walk the high road today, as it provided better views and far less traffic. Well, she was right on both counts. The high road overlooked the Caribbean blue waters of the Atlantic, in its various fairy tale shades, with its voluptuous waves crashing onto the adjoined icing sugar beach. We walked through the sand in bare feet and Ana strolled into the water. This was the first taste of what awaited us in this incredible country.
We walked further along the road and came to a fenced primary school, the second we’d seen on the island. The kids were dressed in smart uniforms, acting crazy, swinging each other around, running randomly, shouting for no reason, like all kids should do. One little boy ran up to the fence when he saw us coming, rammed his fist in the air, threw back his head and yelled, “Oooooohh yahhhh!” and held the holler until we had taken a look down this throat then continued past him to admire the rest of the euphoric children.
We reached a side street and looked down to see the Dolphin House, which we’d heard about from the Black Banana. It was a structure like nothing I’d ever seen. I asked Stella to inquire on the admission fee. She found a thin, older Bahamian man standing near the entrance and spoke with him, then returned.
“Five bucks each, Dad,” Stella reported.
“Here’s a twenty, this place looks incredible,” I said then returned my gaze to the spellbinding house.
We gathered at the front entrance of the building. A sign on the door said, “This house was built by Ashley Saunders” and the word “Sir” had been added, with a thin black arrow pointing to the white space before Ashley. I wondered if this man working here knew Ashley, and if Ashley was even still alive. Our tour guide wore a salt and pepper beard, a blue convict beanie, jeans, and a clean white t-shirt with a light grey jacket over top. He was certainly Bahamian, as he had the unmistakable accent, and only a Bahamian would need to wear a jacket on a fine day like today.
“Folks,” he said, “Dolphin House is an original, one-of-a-kind artwork, done only once, and will never be done again. It was built by hand and by shovel and every piece of construction material you see here was salvaged from the island of Bimini by me, Ashley Saunders.”
“You’re Ashely Saunders?” I asked.
“Yes. And it’s actually Sir Ashley Saunders. I’ve been recently knighted.”
He had my attention. He had all our attention.
“I was swimming in the sea 32 years ago, in the water right out there,” he said as he pointed dramatically towards the beach. “As I was swimming in the sea, 20 dolphins surrounded me and swam with me. It was a sign, a signal, and they came with a purpose. The dolphins awoke the artist in me, an artist that had been dormant until that moment, and I walked out of that ocean with a clear vision to build a house, a bridge between human and dolphin consciousness.”
“For 32 years I have been building this house. Its foundations are five feet deep and it is hurricane proof. It’s been through nine of them. I visit the beach every day to pick up the deliveries from the sea. The ocean is my Home Depot. What doesn’t come from the ocean comes from the island. My Bahamian brothers and sisters catch conch, cut them out and eat them, then throw away the shells. I take those shells and turn them into building materials. There are thousands of conch shells in this house. I find things in the garbage – mayonnaise bottles, olive jars, cans, labels, beer bottles, dolls, trinkets, and I incorporate them into the house. The Hilton hotel, you’ve seen it, they had dumpsters of ceramic tile, steel, wire, things left over from construction, and I took it all and used it,” Ashley said as he pointed to objects incorporated into the exterior. “I also find things from nature – feathers, leaves, stones, branches, seeds, bones, even a giant turtle shell and skull. There is a spot for all these things in the Dolphin House. He guided us to the side of the structure.
“See this – a starfish made from tile shards; there are dozens or hundreds of these in here. See that, it’s a charm from a bracelet a woman from Wisconsin gave to me. People give me things and I use them. Maybe you will give me something I can use. See over there, fan coral, and up there, a Bacardi rum bottle, and over there a palm tree made from petrified wood and clam shells, and a mahi mahi, and an anchor, and a lobster, all crafted from tile and seashells. And there, a seahorse, over there sponge coral, here a flying fish, and everywhere you look, conch shells, conch shells, all used to build the walls, the foundation, and for decoration. And the dolphins! There are hundreds of dolphins in this house, maybe thousands. Dolphins crafted from shell, from tile, from wood, from glass, from mirrors, from metal.” We listened to him, mesmerized, as he was a gifted speaker, an educated man, a person of substance and wisdom, an artist.
“This railing and wall, see this? I spent two years building this. Two years of my life, bit by bit, piece by piece. Everything you see in this wall was put here with purpose. Did you notice how it is not flat? No, it is rounded and wavy like the ocean. There is nothing flat in the ocean. And see here, this is a shower,” he said, stepping into a small room. “If you lift this metal knob, water comes out. And if you look up, you will see more dolphins on the ceiling. You can shower with the dolphins.”
“Come with me, I will show you the inside.” He led us up the stairs. I ran my fingers over the surfaces as I climbed the stairs. The detail was extraordinary, overwhelming. One could spend a whole day just looking at the sculptures, figures, patterns, and objects imbedded into the concrete swirls of this railing.
I walked into the house and dropped the mic. I saw the mouths of my companions hanging open.
“Look around, take all the photos you like. Did I tell you I am a world class artist? I am in the same category as Pablo Picasso, Dali, those guys,” Sir Ashley said, laughing, eyes twinkling. “See those up there, all crafted out of aluminum. Those are the little fish that travel in huge schools. Herring, anchovies, sardines, mackerel. They are traveling in a school right now, on the Dolphin House wall. See the mermaid over there? She washed up on shore for me. It took two of us to lift her, solid bronze. Probably came from a ship. Now she lives in Dolphin House, and see there – I built her a little fireplace to keep warm. It’s made from a….you guessed it – a conch shell, and a little light inside. And see the ventilation holes? Pickle bottles with bug screen, surrounded by beer bottles to provide light. I kept the jar lids so I can close the ventilation when there’s too much cold wind blowing in. And remember the marbles you used to play with when you were a kid? That’s what the lionfish and angelfish over there are made from. And the balls you see hanging from the ceiling? Fishing buoys, lost, then found by me. The glass ones floated here from Japan.” Sir Ashley had stories for every object and remembered when and why he crafted each design.
“What was it like meeting the queen?” Ana asked.
“I didn’t necessarily meet her in person,” Sir Ashley explained. “The prime minister flew here in her stead and presented me with the knighthood. It is sad she has passed on, very sad indeed.”
“But you got your knighthood just in time,” I said.
“Indeed I did. Say, what state are you from? Did you notice the license plates?”
“We are actually Canadian, and I did notice all the American license plates, plus I spotted one from Quebec.”
“Dolphin House has license plates from all fifty states,” Sir Ashley said proudly. “As for Canada, I am still missing Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Newfoundland, and Manitoba. Send your friends from there to visit and remind them to bring a license plate. That’s how I collected the US ones; visitors come, they go, they mail me their license plate.”
We moved through the spaces – a kitchen, a bedroom, a washroom, another bedroom and a washroom and a closet.
“Look in that closet,” said Sir Ashley. “That’s the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.” It sure was. Sheets of calendar pinup girls, lacquered into the wall for perpetuity. “That’s my little indulgence.”
“Do people stay here? The beds are made and it looks ready to move into,” asked Ana.
“Yes my dear. But only for one night, then they have to get out early. Many people want to visit the Dolphin House. But I am building a third floor as an Air B&B that I will rent. I’ll show it to you.”
Sir Ashley led us up another finely hand-crafted stairwell, decorated with dolphins, starfish, mermaids, shells, clear Kalik and green Heineken bottles. I stepped into the third floor. Mic drop.
“See that shovel in the corner? That’s what I used to build Dolphin House. Just me and the shovel. And see the words on the wall in all the different languages? They read “Welcome to Dolphin House” in a hundred languages, maybe more. I have visitors write it in their own language on a piece of paper, then later I write it on the wall. Dolphin House is for everybody.”
“Stella, look at this,” Ana said excitedly.
“I know what you are looking at,” said Sir Ashley. “It’s the Canadian one and two dollar bills. Can’t get those anymore. But Dolphin House has them, and bills from every other currency in the world, all lacquered into the tables and desks you see here.”
I walked into the Hemingway room. It was filled with newspaper articles, handwritten letters, images of his books, photographs, Hemingway quotes. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know. Never confuse movement with action. Show the reader everything; tell them nothing. Write hard and clear about what hurts.
I could lie in this bed for a week, reading the walls.
Another room had a small section of wall dedicated to Sir Ashley himself. Excerpts from his books of poetry and his books on the history of Bimini. His biography - degree in Philosophy, term at Harvard, school teacher, historian, poet, artist. I read March of the Hermit Crabs in the Rain. He is a poet.
Sir Ashley was in no rush and he did not rush us. When we were ready he said, “Now you must see the lighthouse on the roof, but you go alone.”
We ascended yet another meticulously crafted staircase and stepped onto the flat roof. It was, of course, decorated, with a lighthouse in the centre, quadrants for the cardinal directions, floor tiles, stone ramparts. We were on top of Bimini and could see the crashing waves of the Atlantic to the west, the calm waters of the lagoon to the east, and long stretches of land north and south. There were no ugly guardrails to disturb the views. If you got too close and slipped, you’d fall to your death, probably on a pile of conch shells. But that could never happen in the Dolphin House.
We met Sir Ashley back down on the ground floor. Behind one door is where he lives, behind the other was a small gift shop, the Shabby Chic Boutique. The girls bought postcards. Ana bought a scarf. I browsed Sir Ashley’s two volumes of the History of Bimini, then spoke to him at length about Hemingway and the art of catching marlin.
As we prepared to leave, I tried to think of something profound to say. Something to capture how much this visit had affected me, how inspiring the Dolphin House is, how this is the most amazing house I’ve ever had the privilege to enter. I said, “Sir Ashley, this is the most significant and meaningful house I’ve ever visited. Thank-you.”
“Thank-you,” he said politely. I expect he has heard this a hundred times. But it was the best I could do.
We enjoyed a long overdue lunch at a local shack on the beach to the sultry sounds of R&B and the company of a street mutt who had heard we were going out for lunch so joined us. The girls had chicken quesadillas, Ana had shrimp and fries and I had lobster and fries. Some of the local boys were drinking orange juice and slamming down tiles on a permanent domino table. The proprietor sent us across the street to grab drinks from the convenience store, so I grabbed a much more reasonably priced Kalik and the ladies had local pop. We toasted to our good fortune and to the incredible Dolphin House and pondered on this for the rest of the day.
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