Touring Spanish Wells

Spanish Wells – 6 nautical miles sailed, 5 miles in dinghy, 6 kilometres walked

It was a dark and stormy night.

But by the morning it had calmed somewhat so we were the first boat to pull anchor and we motored into Spanish Wells. The ideal plan for the day hinged on us finding an open mooring ball and that we did – one left, so we grabbed it, gave a team “Hurrah!” then dinghy’d into shore and paid for two nights.

The plan for today was simply to walk the island. We met a young American couple as we were standing on the eastern end of the island looking out to the striking sea colours and they did the classic American story dump. Within five minutes we’d learned they had four kids, were real estate investors who owned a series of apartment blocks, had some sort of alternative mortgage business, the husband was also a professional fisherman who traveled the world for fishing tournaments and had recently just missed out, by a couple of ounces, on a hundred thousand dollar prize. She seemed to be primarily her husband’s cheerleader, but I’m sure she had plenty on the go too. They were visiting friends in Spanish Wells. I think we told them our names before saying goodbye and moving on.

Dave and Kira were intrigued by the vegetations and mesmerized by the sea colours, which made us realized how accustomed we’d become to these everyday sights in the Bahamas that are extraordinary. We were able to appreciate them again through the fresh eyes of our friends as we walked the island.

We stopped at an art studio and got a crash course in Spanish Wellian history from the resident artist and art teacher from the school next door. He showed us around the studio proudly as he pointed out all the pieces created by locals artists and kids from the school. He was also able to answer many of my burning questions about the Bahamas, but went further and told us about the raccoon problem on Eleuthera. Legend had it that some nimrod had brought a pair of mating raccoons to Eleuthera from the US some years before. Well, those two lovers had gone Marvin Gaye and produced an army of offspring, who went on to reproduce themselves, and you know how exponential growth goes. The raccoons found plenty of organic fruit to eat from the wild fruit trees and discarded food waste, making them a desirable organic meat themselves. The artist told us his friend goes there to trap them, and sells them for ten bucks each to the Haitian community living there, who are one step ahead of the other locals in identifying nutritious and affordable food options. Our artist friend claimed he was ready and willing to sample raccoon, but only if it was prepared well by a competent chef. We remained skeptical.

I mentioned in an earlier journal that Kira is a hobbyist. Among other things, she is very good at sewing so we stopped at the shop that has a large collection of fabric and found an entire row of marine-themed fabric. Swirls of shells, leaping dolphins, lobsters on parade, smiling manatees, strings of sea grass, clackity clams, beds of sponges, and fishes, so many fishes. She held various fabrics up to Dave’s body, judging which mosaic of sea creatures best brought out his handsome features and reflected his inner Aquaman. I recommended he also pick up a solid gold, diamond-eyed, spiny lobster necklace like the one we’d seen on the manly Spanish Wellian fellow pumping fuel at the gas dock last week, tucked safely into his thick grey chest hair, as if hiding within a coral reef.

We stopped at Kathi’s bakery for fresh banana bread and Johnny cake then hit the supermarket for a few small provisions – dorado fillets, ground burger, cilantro, vanilla wafers, papaya, and a few sexy vegetables. From here we walked up to the Buddha Bar, a local institution that we had yet to visit. The entrance was a house with a trailer parked beside it and a carport you walked through to enter. On closer inspection the trailer was, in fact, the kitchen and the carport led to the bar, a Caribbean themed mishmash of parrots squawking from a cage, wooden tables with metal napkin dispensers, plastic chairs that tattoo the buttocks, televisions dangling from beams, tuned to English football, clever sayings scratched on driftwood hung from every other available space, palm trees and bushes at the perimeter, and servers that outnumbered the customers and spoke with that glorious Spanish Wellian dialect.

Once we had claimed a table, Dave and took the groceries and began walking back to the boat. As we reached the oceanside road I spotted a golf cart approaching. I stopped, concentrating intensely with my eyes closed and a throat hum, then broadcast this telepathic message to the driver: Give those clowns a ride. Give those clowns a ride. Give those clowns a ride.

The driver's head rocked back as if he had been shot, then he gave it a shake, looked over at us, slowed down and said, “You clowns need a ride?”

“Sure do!” said Dave. “So nice of you to stop.”

“No problem…yet I somehow felt like I had no choice,” he said, almost to himself, slightly flustered.

I winked at Dave. He winked back. I tried winking with the other eye but it didn’t work, so we just did our secret handshake instead. Our driver whipped us back to the dinghy at top speed then we embarked, but not before waving my hand in front of his face, saying, “You will remember nothing.”

We did a quick turnaround at the boat, jamming the freezies into the freezer, coolies in the main chamber, and rest of it on the counter, then powered the dinghy back to a private dock close to the restaurant, tied it up, and hustled back up the road to the restaurant, stopping only to give a drink of Pabst Blue Ribbon to the gaudy Trump head lawn sign in somebody’s yard.

Kaliks and ginger beer arrived shortly and we put in our late lunch orders then I wandered the restaurant, looking for life tips, first from the parrots but they had nothing to say on the matter, then from the driftwood signs. Two hit me as profound:

I find when I keep one pant leg tucked into a sock, people expect less of me.

Potatoes make French fries, chips, and vodka. Seems like other vegetables aren’t even trying.

After our leisurely lunch we had just enough light remaining in the day to take the dinghy up the channel in search of dolphins and manatees. Sadly, we struck out on both, but did use the high tide to motor over to the swing sets Ana and I had found the week before which were now fully surrounded by water. And we had a lovely ride.

Our evening entertainment on SeaLight was the movie Border, which features the greatest sex scene ever filmed in the history of moviemaking, and naked creatures running joyfully through the forest. It brought me sweet dreams.