NORMA DESMOND RIDES AGAIN

Day 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28 ...

Stuck here on Great Harbor Cay, I thought I'd rent a golf cart and check out the island. Not much to look at, really. The beach side is post-card beautiful, with high cliffs overlooking aqua seas for as far as you can see. Conversely, the inland scenery is depressing, at best ...nothing lush, nothing in order, nothing kept...nothing cared for. There's no "town" to speak of, just a small centralized area where the market, school and church are planted. The grocery store is dark, quiet and sparse in relation to its square footage. One step inside and I'm compelled to immediately backtrack. Instead, I purchase some cheese and boxed milk....out of pity, I suppose. Across the street, the wine store is a stark and surprising contrast...It's bright and clean and stocked with a good selection of liquors, beer and vino. I buy a few Guinness...sans the pity.

The marina where I'm lashed is okay. It looks like it was a jewel "back in the day" and the new owner is making incremental strides to rejuvenate the premises. My boat neighbors are comprised of fellow stranded sailors, the aforementioned lobster fishermen and a few power-yachties who seem content to call this place home....for the time being, at least. There's a large, yet antiquated, 75' Hatteras yacht parked directly perpendicular to my boat. There was no one aboard up until the day before Thanksgiving. Their absence afforded me the opportunity to secretly hate them for their huge boat blocking my WIFI reception. The owner, who flew in from West Palm, is a 60-year-old woman who never crossed a speech impediment. She's sweet and friendly, but she'd be more aptly structured if she had two mouths and one ear.  So now I can hardly enter or exit my boat without hearing "Captain Ron?! ... (insert loud, intrusive and meaningless conversation here)."

She's sweet tho. Her name is Robin and she's fairly recently divorced. I think she likes me...as she's inclined to introduce me to everyone she converses with and is apparently hell-bent on making Steve and her little dog "Lola" best friends. 

She invites him over to play...walks them together... feeds him treats on a regular basis and talks to the both of them at what should be an unlawful volume. She disembarks her yacht each morning wearing a sheer pajama pant-suit with her erect tits slinging independently of one another down around her waist. It's not a matter of trying not to notice them...it's a matter of trying not to see them. She's sweet tho. She knows everything about everyone on the island. As we strolled one night, she sang the praises of Great Harbor Cay and went on about how Brooke Shield's dad once owned a house here...and how several Hollywood types would frequent the island...and how Jack Nicklaus still flies over here to bonefish. She told of the famed drug lord (now dead) that once lived on the island...the DC-9 aircrafts that used to land at the airport (now small planes only), the championship golf course (now mown monthly) and the parties held by the pool (now half empty).  For a moment I felt like I was in an aquatic version of Sunset Boulevard and it struck me as sad that this island, now a shadow of its former self, was still so dear to this woman's memory bank. Never one to shy away from an opportunity to offend, I asked her: "What's the appeal of this place now?" She didn't take offense and quickly replied: "Have you seen the beach?!" I tacitly concurred and she went on to explain how the fishing was world-class...and what a great job the new marina owner was doing to revitalize the place. I wasn't convinced, but somehow I kept that to myself.

"Miko" is the marina dockhand. He's a short, rotund, coal-black, flat-footed Bahamian that's about as cheerful a person as you'll ever meet. He loves Steve and brings him bacon so that he can show and tell anyone who'll listen, all of Steve's tricks. Like Robin, Miko is proud of this place. On Thanksgiving morning he made his way to each of our boat slips to hand out 1/4 sheets of paper with black and white printed invitations to a Thanksgiving pot-luck dinner. You would have thought he was handing out winning lottery tickets...and in a way, he was. 

Thanksgiving was originally going to be held under the Marina gazebo...it's a terrific spot...large enough for 4 picnic tables with plenty of space in between. But the same winds that brought us together, pushed us to the largest boat in the harbor....an 85' motor yacht that was sunken in Katrina...revived, restored and up-fitted with the latest technology money can buy. I thought name-tags might be in order, but even this feeble mind could register everyone and their corresponding spouses. Somewhat surprisingly, the boat owner had the wherewithal to offer a moment of silence in lieu of a "blessing." How refreshing to witness the seeds of human evolution being sewn in such a remote locale. The food was as good as any Thanksgiving...abundance being the key. And like most get-togethers, the men soon found themselves among men....and the women and children eventually infiltrated. It was nice in that it wasn't awkward or forced...we're all here for one reason or another, and somehow we knew not to delve too deeply into each other's previous lives. We're here now...and we're thankful.

"Captain Ron!!!" (It's Robin.) "Clark's taking a bunch of people to the Blue Hole, but that's too rough for me so I'm taking you and Steve and Lola on my boat over to Little Stirrup Cay where we can let the dogs swim....leaving in about an hour." I smile and say "Cool!"...because that's all I can say. I have no excuse to reject the offer...and I'm pretty sure she know this. She invites another couple and together we set out with her Bahamian boat-boy at the helm of the antiquated 25' center console she keeps tied up to her Hatteras. It's a nice boat ride, albeit choppy....and I get the first water-view of the island since I groggily approached it last Sunday. We fish a bit and catch 8 "Jacks"... the boat-boy jumps in and snares a few conch...the dogs swim...we drink a few beers and return to the docks just before sundown. It wasn't something I really wanted to do and I wouldn't put it in the "Fun!" category....but it did get me out of the harbor for a few hours, and I needed that. 

It's Friday night and the winds are buffeting my laptop as I sit under the gazebo. They've been relentless for almost a week now. At some points, they let up and I can only imagine how stagnant this protected harbor must be when the normal trades blow. The locals say Bahamian winters are unpredictable...to which I respond: "But every cruising guide I read talks about people spending winters in the Bahamas?" And to a man, they say: "Yeah, but those are Canadians! Would you rather be a wind-blown buoy or a popsicle?" Duly noted.

Still, this front is unique, even by unpredictable Bahama standards....in that it has lasted a week. Tomorrow is going to max out at around 25 kts and I'm tempted to shove off. I'm to the point where I'd prefer discomfort on the sea to the calm refuge of this harbor. I knew I was becoming restless when I felt the urge to play some tunes while I washed dishes the other morning. (The first self-induced music exposure in 25 days.) But while the winds may be throttling back, the seas are still pissed...and so I'll sit another day. 

Where to from here? 

Undecided.