Part 1: Getting There: June 8<br><br>It’s now been over 2 years since we last visited Abaco. Not for lack of trying, however. We were supposed to have sailed last November, but bad weather (Hurricane Michelle) intervened. So instead we managed to sail in the British Virgin Islands that week. This time, like our BVI trip, it’s just me and Cap’n Rick. We’ve enjoyed sailing with friends and family, but we’re awfully happy to be on our own. It’s a totally different experience. We make a great team. After years of sailing together, we know our roles and jobs instinctively, without any of that yelling you see from other couples, particularly in tense anchoring situations. We like to do most of the same things, but also let each other do our “own” activities – like Rick’s diving. And since we not traveling with a crew – which tends to be its own self-contained social unit – we meet more people (when not seeking privacy).<br><br>This is our 20th trip “down island” in nearly 13 years of marriage. But instead of becoming blasé about the trips, I find myself more anxious in anticipating each trip, and less able to recover from the high when we get back. And in this case, we had one of the longest countdowns ever (we booked this trip at the Annapolis sailboat show in October 2000!). Luckily, the mechanics of the trips, at this stage, are easy … booking, planning, preparation, getting there, etc. all follow a well-trod path.<br><br>And so, on the morning of June 8, we are finally on our way. We got up at 4:30 a.m. for our 5 a.m. pick-up. We are dropped at BWI’s American Airlines counter, where chaotic lines rule the day. After 40 minutes of waiting, while the agents are separating the Miami (us) and San Juan travelers from the rest, we finally check in, only to be singled out for special luggage screening. This happens to us so regularly that I wonder if we don’t fit some special profile (aside from the obvious and dangerous “Boring White-Bread Teva-Wearing Yuppie Scum”). Any other frequent island travelers with the same thoughts? At this juncture, Cap’n Rick is required to remove his underwater camera (which is in a Pelican case) from his checked bag, because the screening would destroy the film, and he is not allowed to return it to the bag … it’s a good thing he had only one small carry-on. Beyond this, regular security takes another 20 minutes. BWI is the first airport in the U.S. to have professional, government employees handling security, and believe me, it makes a HUGE difference. They are thorough but efficient, and above all courteous.<br><br>The boarding process was equally chaotic. Several families with multiple small children and their associated strollers, car seats, diaper bags, etc. were waiting to board (American no longer allows pre-boarding), and perversely, one adult from each of these groups was selected for security screening at the gate, leaving the other parent to struggle with 2-3 little kids and their clobber by themselves. <br><br>Needless to say, with all of this messing about, we took off 20 minutes late and arrived in Miami 20 minutes late, threatening our tight 1 hour connection. Rick and I made a run for the American Eagle gate, but were continually blocked by people bigger than us (or with bags bigger than us) trying to plow us down … I told Rick we needed to find a clear path of smaller people than us, so that we could run them over! We got to the gate, breathless, just as the bus was about to pull away. They held it so that I could go through another security check which felt more like a sobriety test (as I stood with my arms out, I was told to raise one lethal sandal-clad foot at a time behind me, so that it could be scanned … and was told to raise it high enough so as not to trouble the aching back of the security officer).<br><br>We finally got on the bus and met a group from Boston waiting from someone on our BWI flight who did NOT run for the gate and ultimately didn’t make the flight. It was pouring rain, and I worried that our bags wouldn’t make it. We met a lot of friendly people on the bus, many of whom would be sailing as well. The MHH flight took off a bit late, but landed right on time in sunshine, with a few clouds. As we were landing, we were treated to views of the cays, including the only sighting of the Hopetown lighthouse I would have all week. We didn’t get immigration cards on the plane, so upon landing, everyone was scrambling to fill them out even as they lined up for immigration. We got through quickly, but it didn’t matter because the bags took 15 minutes to reach the terminal. Once we got ours (yea! they made it!), customs was breeze and we grabbed Ben Dawson’s brand new taxi/van to take us to Marsh Harbour Marina.<br><br>At the marina, Mike Houghton of Sail Abaco was deep in the bowels of one of his fleet, sweating in the heat, so we simply dropped our bags on Trinket, the PDQ 32 which would be our home for the week, and had Ben drop us off at Sappodilly’s for lunch, with an agreement to pick us up at 2:30 to make our provisioning rounds. Lunch was Kalik (now I’m FINALLY on vacation), conch fritters, conch and grouper burgers. While we waited for Ben, I ran down the road to Iggy Biggy to get Rick a new leash for his sunglasses and picked up the ever-essential silver toe ring for myself. <br><br>Once Ben picked us up, we went on a hyper-efficient commando provisioning run. Ben and Rick dropped me off at Sawyer’s, while they went to the liquor store and bakery. My grocery list is complete, but geared towards items I know I can usually find in an island supermarket. Even so, I was pleasantly surprised with the variety and quality of goods I found at Sawyer’s, including really nice NY strip steaks, and I was able to buy everything on my list but yogurt for $125. This is more than the prices at home, but that’s the price of paradise. Rick and Ben found me just as I finished up, and then we made our last stop: Long’s Landing Seafood for grouper and conch. We were all done in just under an hour.<br><br>Then came the hot, stuffy work of stowing it all aboard Trinket. This boat, a 32 foot PDQ catamaran, is owned personally by Mike Houghton (and is, incidentally, for sale). It is in beautiful condition and is ideal for a couple chartering alone or with one or two children (it would be tight for two couples). There is a roomy cockpit covered with a hard dodger; the dodger supports solar panels which re-charge the batteries, eliminating the need to run the engine to keep the refrigeration going. From the cockpit, you step into a bright, airy U-shaped saloon. Step down two steps to port (left) to find a small but efficient galley, complete with 12 volt refrigeration, sink, two-burner gas stove, and storage. Aft (rear) of the galley is one of the 2 queen-sized berths, which is set high, requiring a climb up the bench into bed. Step down two steps from the saloon to starboard (right) and you have a navigation station with bench, a head (toilet and sink, which converts into a shower) forward, and the second berth aft. In the front is the ever-important trampoline connecting the two hulls of the catamaran, where one can spend daylight lolling in the sun, or evenings gazing at the stars.<br><br>After all this hard work, it was time to head for the bar (the Jib Room) and the pool. The sweet young man tending bar made bushwhackers for us, and brought them to us in the pool, where we were trying to cool off in water just barely cooler than the air temperature. The pool was full of other marina guests, many of whom apparently keep their boats in Marsh Harbour and make the trip over from Florida on a regular basis – we had not encountered this sub-group of Abaco visitors on our previous trips, which had been in April or March.<br><br>By this time, Mike and his helper, Jane, were done with the hard work of getting the boats ready for today’s 4 p.m. charter starts, so we offered them drinks and hung out a while. Jane and I went to the bar to get the special drink, the Bilge Burner, which certainly blasted away some brain cells, while I made Mike a rum and ginger ale. By the time we headed for the Jib Room’s famous Saturday steak cook-out, we had good buzzes going. Rick and I opted for the fish, which was mahi mahi, while we treated Mike and Jane to great-looking prime rib (no steak tonight, but beef lovers were not disappointed). A local rake-and-scrape band provided atmosphere and dance music. We laughed ourselves silly as we told scurrilous tales about people we knew or knew of, but wore ourselves out by about 9 p.m. (it had been a long day for ALL of us).<br><br>While we could have sailed off at 4 p.m., we had elected to spend the night in the marina, which may not have been the best choice. It was a long night. It was still and hot in the marina, and the mangroves nearby supplied a steady stream of hungry mosquitos who were only stilled after a middle-of-the-night application of Off Skintastic. A little too much booze made sleep difficult as well. But we looked forward to sailing off tomorrow…<br><br>Part 2: The Scourge of Flying Teeth<br><br>After a restless night resulting as much from discomfort as anticipation, we woke at 6:15 a.m. Two hours to go til the Cruiser’s Net on VHF Channel 68. I’m looking forward to the familiar voices of Patty and Barmeter Bob. When I walked into the head, the air was cloudy with mosquitos, their symphonic whine bouncing off the fiberglass walls. I found a can of Raid and sprayed them into oblivion, doing the same to the similar cloud of skeeters in the bunk we’re using for storage. I went down the dock to use the shoreside facilities, wanting to be sure the little buggers in the head were good and dead. We had not closed the companionway, and neglected to put the screen in one of the hatches, and this was the price we paid. While we didn’t have a coffeemaker this morning (Mike got us one later), Rick did get us cinnamon rolls at the bakery yesterday, so breakfast in the cockpit was quite tasty.<br><br>The Cruiser’s Net weather report called for mostly cloudy skies; scattered showers and thunderstorms (someone had spotted a waterspout off Elbow Cay earlier); a high of 86; and winds starting at SE, then E, then NE, all at 10-15 knots. After a quick briefing from Mike, we were off at 9:30 a.m., under a milky sky. Once out of Marsh Harbour proper, we raise the sails and shut down the engines. This moment of silence is, to me, the essence of what makes sailing so special. The only sounds we have are the breeze in the sails, gently swishing water under our hulls, and occasional radio chatter. The Sea of Abaco has wind ripples, but is generally flat, as we head for Baker’s Bay on Great Guana Cay.<br><br>Since the sky is a bit cloudy, we don’t have the full effect of the colors of the Sea of Abaco. Under full sunlight, it’s a miraculous sight, all of those different blues and greens. In the shallower, sandy stretches, you can count the starfish on the bottom. If a paint company were to match those colors, they could do paint strips with different colors for different depths … I’ve determined that the color of my bathroom at home is “Sea of Abaco at 18 Feet.”<br><br>By noon, the Baker’s Bay anchorage is in sight, with its blazing white stretch of beach. With easterly winds predicted, this is a good place to anchor tonigh. To my disappointment, there are lots of boats here today – perhaps 30 – but given the size of the anchorage and our shallow draft we’re able to tuck in close to shore, away from the crowds. To anchor, Rick and I employed our well-tested (and often-teased-about) system of hand signals, with me at the helm and Rick at the bow. Though my performance with two engines (which cut in and out most annoyingly at low RPMs) on this new-to-me boat was less than a perfect “10”, we stuck the anchor on the first try. While Rick dove the anchor, I made lunch of chicken salad on yummy Bahamian bread.<br><br>Every journey to Abaco is for us a combination of visiting well-known and well-loved sites, as well as discovering new ones. So, while we’ve come to know and love Baker’s Bay and the nearby northwest and Atlantic ocean beaches, we had yet to visit the Spoil Bank Cay (or Shell Island) just northwest. So that was our adventure today, and we were well-armed with our Teva sandals for what can be a foot-slashing beach circumnavigation. The Spoil Bank Cay was created from the dredged leavings (the “spoil”) of a cruise ship company which dug out a cruise ship channel and turning basin at the northern end of Great Guana Cay. Nature has since made the site her own, and it now teems with vegetation, birds and lizards, and its beaches are covered with millions of shells, most smaller than an inch but many larger. Since my house is already filled with bowls of shells and sand dollars, we now normally pick up only extraordinary specimens or flotsam for a special project (like the beach glass I found in Grand Turk which was used to make an amazing mosaic picture frame). So here we are, standing on this amazing beach with zillions of perfect shells for the taking, looking for an excuse to pick some up, when … voila! … Rick realizes that his OFFICE doesn’t have any shells. Now we’re off to the races, and pick up a few dozen perfect specimens.<br><br>As we walked around the Spoil Bank Cay, we passed a few fellow travelers and shared common sentiments: “This is really awful.” “Yeah, it pretty much sucks here.” “Someone has to make the sacrifice to suffer being here.” I guess we’re all so blissed out that positive words don’t do the trick and we resort to irony. Along the way, we meet a Coloradan on a catamaran with whom we struck up a conversation about marinas in Annapolis, as his family’s cruise from the Bahamas up the East Coast will lead him to our stomping grounds. He would be in need of transient dockage, so naturally we referred him to our home marina. However, lightning and ominous clouds on the western horizon cut our conversation short, and we picked up the pace so we could return to Trinket and make sure everything was tied down.<br><br>But as we dinked past Trinket, the weather seemed to settle and all hatches were battened, so we landed the dink on the beach at Baker’s Bay. We had plans to go walking to the former cruise ship facilities (which look like a cross between Gilligan’s Island and Fantasy Island) or to look for the trail which cuts across to the ocean side beach. But neither of those was to happen because the beach was filled with voracious sand fleas (“flying teeth”) and bloodthirsty mosquitos. In our haste to escape the marauding hordes, we dove into the blood-warm water of the bay, even though a few persistent mosquitos followed us off the beach. After dispatching with the straggling mosquitos most in-humanely (smacking them dead), we floated in the clear water until our fingers were pruny. We then bravely made a stealth attack on the beach to reclaim our dinghy. After the beach attack, we returned to the boat, boarded our Fun-noodles, and floated between the hulls of our boat, under the trampoline (and out of the sun), holding on to a rope so that the current didn’t carry our lazy butts away.<br><br>It never did rain Sunday afternoon, even though it looked like it was going to. We whiled away the rest of the afternoon reading, writing, lounging in the cockpit or on the trampoline, and drinking Kalik. For our first dinner afloat, I made an all-Bahamian meal: conch chowder, Bahamian bread, and Kalik (I am an enthusiastic soup-maker, and reverse-engineer the ones I really like in restaurants, so my conch chowder is almost as good as an authentic one.) <br><br>The rest of the evening passed just as un-strenuously, and by 9:30 p.m., we were passed out in our bunk, coated with Skintastic. But as soon as we drifted off, the wind cranked up and lightning started to flash. Rick checked the anchor and I slammed the hatches closed as the rain started to pour. The rain and wind passed quickly, but not wanting to go through a second Hatch Drill, we left the hatches closed for the night.<br><br>Part 3: Braving the Whale<br><br>Although the Skintastic I’ve poured on me is keeping the bugs from biting, a whining mosquito circling around my ear wakes me as I haplessly try to swat it away. I actually yelled at it to just bite me already and shut up about it, since I already have dozens of welts. That outburst wakes me up, and I’m outside at 6 a.m., watching a brightening sky and listening to the roar of the ocean in the distance.<br><br>I manage to get dressed and cleaned up, apply sunscreen from head-to-toe (other than my back, which is Rick’s job), eat breakfast (Pop-Tarts), and write in my journal before I decide to wake Rick up at 7:30. We listen to the Cruiser’s Net at 8:15, but get an incomplete weather forecast because the power is out in various spots on Great Abaco. Nevertheless, we decide that we will tackle the Whale Cay Passage today so that we can visit Green Turtle Cay for the first time.<br><br>To those who aren’t familiar with this area, the cays offshore of Great Abaco are like a broken string of pearls running roughly north to south. The area between Great Abaco and the cays is referred to as the Sea of Abaco, which makes a delightful, protected and somewhat shallow cruising ground. At a point just north of Great Guana Cay, roughly opposite Treasure Cay on the “mainland,” the Sea of Abaco becomes extremely shallow, an area of shifting sands which most boats cannot traverse because they will hit bottom. As a result, in order to go north from Great Guana Cay, boats with deeper draft must exit the Sea of Abaco through a channel between Great Guana and Whale Cay (the Loggerhead Channel), pass along Whale Cay on its ocean side, and re-enter the Sea of Abaco between Whale Cay and No Name Cay (the Whale Cay Channel). This is a pretty straightforward passage, but can be complicated by the fact that the “outside” waters are relatively shallow (for the Atlantic Ocean, anyway) as well, and prone to a sea condition referred to locally as a “rage,” heavy breaking seas that may have no relation to local weather conditions. Crossing the Whale in a rage in a small boat is not advisable. Even if a crossing is not afflicted with rage conditions, there is no guarantee that the return trip will be equally calm.<br><br>Happily for us, there is no rage in the Whale. Once we leave the anchorage at Baker’s Bay, we raise the sails and start to make our way offshore. The ocean had a 2-3 foot low-frequency swell running, but no breaking seas, so we were in good shape. However, there is not much wind either, so after attempting to sail, we ended up motoring part of the way. Once we crossed back in to the Sea of Abaco, the sun and sandy bottom gave us a water show worthy of photos and fantasies, and the gorgeous beaches off No Name Cay and Green Turtle Cay were calling our names (they would have to wait). By lunchtime, we are anchoring outside of Settlement Harbour in New Plymouth, Green Turtle Cay, which we’d not visited in our past travels.<br><br>New Plymouth is a sweet little town, built around the water, with tidy pastel-painted saltbox houses for homes and businesses. It’s not unlike Hopetown in some respects, but the ”streets” (really, glorified sidewalks, and not much wider) seem to occupy more space here – more concrete and less greenery. We stopped at Laura’s Kitchen for lunch of conch and grouper; it felt like eating in someone’s living room, with the service just as cozy. Since it was hot and steamy outside, the air-conditioning offered a welcome break.<br><br>Fortified with lunch, we hit the trail, looking for a beach. We hit the jackpot when we found Gillam Bay at low tide. The electric blue water and dazzling white/pink sand were almost painful to behold, and it was shallow – no more than waist deep – yards and yards away from the shore. We strolled and waded for an hour or so, and my only regret was leaving my camera in a heap with our clothes at the starting point of our walk, so pretty is this beach. Eventually, we had to turn back in order to complete our errands and be at our evening’s anchorage by early evening.<br><br>One of those “errands” was a stop at the legendary Miss Emily’s Blue Bee Bar, birthplace of the Goombay Smash. Miss Emily’s daughter now serves the drinks in these spare rooms whose walls are encrusted with glued-on business cards and other artifacts. The Smashes are STRONG, and we gulp them down just a little too quickly on this hot day. While at Miss Emily'’, we meet a couple from Colorado visiting on a motor yacht (whom we might run into on Manjack, our intended next-day’s anchorage), and a pair of newlyweds who’d just been married by Vernon Malone at the church on Elbow Cay and who were honeymooning at the Green Turtle Club. We leave them behind to go about our remaining chores.<br><br>Our chores include a stop at the post office (stamps for my scrapbook), a boutique (something fresh to wear to dinner), a grocery store (yogurt, bottled water, block ice), and the hardware store (cube ice). By 3:30, we are leaving Settlement Harbour and heading slightly north to White Sound. We overshot the entrance to the channel (it didn’t seem liked we’d gone far enough), but found it on our return and entered the very narrow channel into a snug little anchorage, surrounded by the picture-perfect resorts of Bluff House on the west side, and the Green Turtle Club on the east.<br><br>On Mike Houghton’s recommendation that the Green Turtle Club is the “less stuffy” of the two, we made dinner reservations over the VHF. We then showered and enjoyed a pre-dinner snack of cheese and crackers, washed down with Painkillers (this is the first time we’ve had ice!). Once ashore, I was glad to have bought a clean new sundress to wear, because everyone here was dressed up. However, I drew the line at shoes -–we moved our reservation from the inside dining room to the outside dining room so that we wouldn’t have to worry about shoes. The resort is very attractive and well-groomed, in a low-key Abaco kind of way, with a clubby atmosphere (dark wood, wide plank floors, stonework) not unlike the Abaco Inn. While we enjoyed pre-dinner cocktails, the newlyweds returned, apparently not having left Miss Emily’s til just now. The bride wanted a few turns on the dance floor … since the groom was not willing, she hijacked Rick for a few spins.<br><br>Dinner was served promptly at 7:30, and it was an elegant and delicious affair (grouper for me, Abaco crawfish tail for Rick). It was expensive too, at over $100 including bar tab. Oh well; it’s vacation. We were back on the boat at 9:30, and asleep by 10.<br><br>Part 4: Life Aboard Noah’s Ark<br><br>Tuesday morning, we woke to the pitter patter of rain about 6:30 a.m., which by 7:30 had turned into a downpour. The Cruiser’s Net promises crummy weather all day. Ever the optimists, we hope that a weather window will allow us to make a dash for Manjack Cay, which is uninhabited and known to have some lovely beaches. While we wait, we resort to rainy day activities: reading, playing games, snoozing, snacking. Every time there is a break in the rain, I wait five minutes before suggesting we leave; as soon as I make the suggestion, the weather window shuts closed with yet another squall. We had thoughts of perhaps getting together with Abakimmy, but the rain makes that unlikely (and, as it turned out – though unbeknownst to us until returning home – Abakimmy’s Abaco trip ended before it even started).<br><br>Midafternoon, too late for us to sail off, the rain stops and looks like it will hold off for more than a few minutes. The entire White Sound anchorage seems to come to life, as if waking from hibernation. We decide to make the most of the break and do a little exploration. After bailing the VERY full dinghy (it turned out that we had gotten 2.5 inches of rain this day), we go ashore at the Green Turtle Club and start walking east, in search of – what else? – beach! After a 15 minute walk, following the helpful arrows directing us to the “Ocean Beach,” we found ourselves on a classic Abaco oceanside beach: hard-packed (great for walking) pink-tinged white sand, coral and rocks close to shore in some spots, and that characteristic turquoise water looking all the more brilliant in contrast to the bruised-looking sky. We swim, we stroll, and then we head back, but not before running a gauntlet of hungry mosquitos spawned in the puddles.<br><br>By early evening, we’re sipping rum drinks and hoping that it won’t be raining too hard as Rick mans the grill (grouper). We are not so lucky, but rain can’t douse our yet un-quenched optimism or our propane grill.<br><br>As we wake on Wednesday morning, it is still raining. The weather forecast promises more rain, but also for the wind to pick up to 20-25 knots, shifting from SE to SW. These conditions are expected to continue for the rest of the week. Any plan to find another anchorage needs to take this into account, and the options for a safe and comfortable spot in a SW blow are limited (there are lots of great spots for the prevailing easterly conditions). Beyond our current location (White Sound on Green Turtle), others that come to mind are Hopetown, Treasure Cay, Man-O-War harbour, Marsh Harbour and Little Harbour. With the exception of Little Harbour, all of these are likely to be crowded, if not full, already.<br><br>Per plan, we check in with Mike Houghton this morning. We can’t seem to raise him on the radio, so Rick calls him on his cell phone (Verizon Wireless, no special arrangements required, worked like a charm). Mike doesn’t discourage us from doing anything, but hints that we may want to cross back down the Whale Cay Passage before conditions deteriorate further. Based on the weather and Mike’s suggestion, we decide to head for Fisher’s Bay on Great Guana Cay (the bay just north of Settlement Harbour). Although somewhat exposed to the south, we figured that if we could tuck in close behind Delia’s Cay, which forms the western side of the bay, we should be safe.<br><br>We’re off by 9 a.m., during a lull between rain showers, hoping we might be able to take the “inside” passage behind Whale Cay known as the “Don’t Rock Passage” (named after a rock in the Sea of Abaco called “Don’t Rock”). This passage has been tried and tested by boats of lesser draft, and Mike said we could handle it with Trinket within an hour or two of high tide. A steady stream of boats has the same idea this morning, but as they reach the point at which they must decide between making the Whale Cay Passage or the Don’t Rock Passage, they – like us – all elect to go outside and take the Whale. As it turns out, the wind has raised a steep chop in the Don’t Rock, making the prudent course the one on the outside. Once in the ocean, we find that even though the Whale conditions have not deteriorated to dangerous levels, we are still being tossed about like a cork (despite the vaunted stability of catamarans, I would have liked a little lead in my keel today!). We are rocking and rolling, being doused by the occasional wave and intermittent squalls. Judging from the constant radio calls to marinas, everyone is looking for shelter today, and by the time we reach Great Guana, Orchid Bay Marina (in Settlement Harbour) is already full.<br><br>As we approach Fisher’s Bay, the rain re-doubles its efforts to drench us, and the wind picks up. Thankfully, it lets up for us to get a good look at the anchorage and choose our spot. There are already 3 boats in the bay, which fits about a half dozen, and there are a number of moorings available. Despite my desire to grab a mooring ball and rest easy, Rick (wisely, in retrospect) insists that we push as far into the anchorage as depth will allow, and we snuggle up to the shoal just off Delia’s Cay, putting out two anchors. Stressful as this exercise may have been to me, we found ourselves largely out of the gale and swells, securely stuck to the bottom.<br><br>Finally, it’s time for some fun!<br><br>Part 5: Wanna Do Guana<br><br>I’m anxious to get off the boat. Yes, rain can be a fact of life on vacation. Sometimes you even look forward to a day when you don’t have to clog your pores and trash your clothes with head-to-toe sunscreen. But on a boat, the misery of rain is compounded. The hatches all need to be shut. There is nowhere to hang your damp or wet clothes outside, so every interior non-cloth surface has towels and swimsuits draped over it. And it gets humid, so humid that it feels like its about to rain INSIDE. In fact, all of Trinket’s pretty plaid cushions were wicking up humidity as if they were those little packets of silica gel, and the moisture was breeding mildew. Get me OFF this thing FAST!!<br><br>We had barely dropped the anchor, and I was jumping in the dinghy. I didn’t even care if it was raining. We took the dinghy over to the dock at the Guana Beach Resort, which anchors Fisher’s Bay and its pretty sandy beach, but the place was totally deserted, bearing signs from a recent auction of the property. Not wanting to dither too much over where we should go to lunch, we headed to tried-and-true Nipper’s, just a short walk beyond the Settlement (I always get a chuckle over the radio calls for the Nippermobile to pick people up at the ferry dock … it’s only a 5 minute walk along well-marked paths).<br><br>When we arrived at Nipper’s, a break in the clouds allowed the sun to temporarily illuminate the beach – which is spectacularly lovely – and the brightly colored tables and stools. But the clouds soon closed back in and I ordered up a Frozen Nipper … if I can’t see the sun, then I’ll drink something that makes me feel equally warm. Despite the weather and the relatively late hour for lunch (2 p.m.), Nipper’s had a respectable number of diners, especially on the covered upper decks. We run into the Coloradans on the motor yacht; they’d given up on Manjack as well and were looking for a marina for the night because they needed shore power to run AC (their generator had failed). I hardly ever use AC at home, even in the depths of a Chesapeake summer, so having it on a boat is un-imaginable to me! While we wait for lunch, I sneak into the gift shop to pick up Barefoot Man and Stone McEwan CDs and more insect repellent. (The Barefoot Man CD, “Just Another Sunset,” is DEFINITELY not for children …)<br><br>After eating and drinking, we hit the beach for a long walk and swim. Although the Sea of Abaco is kicked up by the weather, the Atlantic Ocean side, protected from the westerly winds, is relatively calm today. But even though we’re enjoying a pretty calm afternoon, we need to head back to Fisher’s Bay to make sure we haven’t dragged anchor. We find that Trinket hasn’t budged an inch, and she remains just as firmly anchored all night, despite strong winds. The rain continues to come and go the rest of the night, and after a dinner of spaghetti bolognese, we retire early.<br><br>Thursday morning, there aren’t many options more attractive than staying right here at Great Guana Cay. The forecast for rain remains unchanged, as a large low pressure system has parked itself over Florida, drawing lots of Caribbean moisture into the region. Nevertheless, the cloud cover seems to be thinning, and we decide to have a beach day whether or not it rains (heck, we’re going to be wet wherever we go, right?). We also look into the possibility of a dive or snorkel excursion with Dive Guana, which is located right in Fisher’s Bay; however, Troy is off trying to save lives with BASRA, so that remains sketchy. We take our handheld VHF with us, just in case Troy plans an outing today and calls us, but that never materializes.<br><br>We spent a lazy morning on the ocean beach, hiking, swimming and reading – enduring only a few sprinkles. We head back to Trinket for a lunch of BLTs made on the last of our Bahamian bread, and then return to the beach. But first we grab a pair of Frozen Nippers for the road, as we are planning to walk to an area called High Rocks and will need the sustenance for the journey. We have brought our Tevas with us for the trip, even though they have acquired a most unseemly stench from the constant soakings they’ve received, because we’ll want foot protection to get around the rocks. High Rocks is a tall outcropping of rocks south of Nipper’s; at low tide, we were able to climb over the rocks at the water’s edge, to find a small, private area of beach surrounded by the rocks. Further south, the beach opens up again, strewn with boulders both on the sand and in the water. At the south end, the rocks are undercut, forming a tall overhang under which we can hide our stuff from the rain. Rick snorkels for close to an hour (reporting decent snorkeling), while I scramble around the rocks and the pools formed between them. It’s a magical spot, despite the grey skies and sprinkles.<br><br>On our return trip, we note that Floyd’s bar at the Guana Beach Resort appears to be open for business, so we have no choice but to order a pair of Guana Grabbers. As we sit, sipping our drinks and watching the Fisher’s Bay anchorage, we notice another one of Sail Abaco’s PDQ catamarans entering the anchorage. I remember Mike mentioning that this boat, Goodbye Columbus, was carrying sailors from Poland, so once they’ve anchored, Rick and I decide to invite them aboard Trinket for cocktails. We swing by in the dink, and I dust off my rusty Polish and issue the invitation, which they accept cheerfully (and somewhat surprised to find someone speaking their tongue). I warned them that though my Polish speaking is creaky, I understand EVERYTHING, so they would need to behave themselves.<br><br>Of course, now that we’ve invited guests, we have to clean house as well as ourselves, and have just an hour to do it. But we hurry up and take showers, hide all of our soggy stuff out of sight, put together a batch of Painkillers and cocktail munchies, and put on some island music. At exactly 6, our guests – Jack, Andrew, Alicia and Halina (translated) – arrive bearing gifts. Despite the language barrier, we spend a pleasant hour sharing tales of island sailing.<br><br>After the Goodbye Columbus crew departed, we were on our own. We made our traditional last night dinner (because we would have dinner out Friday) of grilled steak, potatos, salad and red wine. Can’t say I’ve ever had a better steak in the islands. The rain had stopped, so we spent the evening on the trampoline, snuggling but without any stars to stare at.<br><br>Part 6: The Sun Will Come Out … Tomorrow<br><br>Thursday night, we got a bit of respite from the rain, but it started up again in earnest very early Friday morning. Will it EVER end? We had hoped for the rain and wind to let up so we could have another crack at Baker’s Bay this morning, before heading to Marsh Harbour for the night, but the rain is intense, leaving us rooted to our spot. At least we don’t have to wear sunscreen on this, our last full day in Abaco. By late morning, since the weather shows no signs of abating, we give up on our plan for Baker’s Bay and decide to head straight to Marsh Harbour after lunch.<br><br>And so, at 12:30, we are on our way across the Sea of Abaco. Wouldn’t you know it, the sky starts to clear. Clear enough to catch some – even too many – rays. Enough un-protected sunbathing that my resulting tan was good enough to make my co-workers not believe we got rained out. Shortly after 3 p.m., we are in the harbour and Rick wants to anchor out. Even though its hot, I’m lobbying to return to our slip at Marsh Harbour Marina. It’s still blowing hard out of the southwest, choppy, and very crowded in the harbour, and with our engines cutting out in idle and neutral, I’m very anxious about anchoring. Rick prevails, and I’m left a jangling bunch of nerve endings, even though by all appearances, we’ve done a smooth job of anchoring. After this, I deserve a Kalik. (I also deserve the opportunity to mess with Cap’n Rick’s head by dragging him into the Abaco Gold shop for threatened paybacks, even though I didn’t really plan to get anything…).<br><br>Before heading into town, we ride over to Sail Abaco’s docks to say hello, and find Mike and Jane working on one of the boats. Mike had cut himself, so we run back to Trinket to grab one of our first aid kits for him (Rick usually just uses rigging tape – it’s like white electrical tape -- to repair himself). Then we go into town to pick up some cold medicine (I’m having severe sinus distress, which is unusual because I find that being IN the islands usually cures what ails me. In retrospect – since it cleared up immediately on arriving home – I suspect that I was getting sick from all the mildew we’d cultured…). We also make the above-mentioned visit to Abaco Gold, which ended empty-handed. Finally, we swing by Mangoes to make dinner reservations and have one of their very dangerous mango daiquiris.<br><br>We showered before dinner and dressed in the only clean and dry clothes we had left (which we’d guarded zealously against our smelly selves and the pervasive wetness). At Mangoes, we had pre-dinner drinks and then took our reserved waterfront table. With the skies finally clearing, it was a lovely night. Sadly, our meals didn’t live up to either the atmosphere or the price. My conch chowder tasted like Maryland crab soup – which is OK but NOT right. My grouper was overcooked and oversalted, the potato wedges tough (that’s a neat trick), and the vegetable du jour was corn-on-the-cob which was soggy and tasteless. Bummer. At this point, we didn’t have the energy to either catch up with Mike and Jane at Sappodilly’s or to go to the Goombay Festival, so we fell asleep to the sounds of the festival.<br><br>The weather finally breaks on Saturday morning – departure day, dontcha know. Though we’ve run fans and opened the hatches to try to air things out, all of our stuff is still soggy and my body feels like its rotting. My hair hasn’t been dry since Monday. We woke early to finish packing and cleaning up the boat, and by 9, we’re topping up the tanks at the fuel dock and helping Trinket into her slip. We have time for showers, off-loading, and leaving books at the marina book exchange. We say our goodbyes to Mike and make plans to get together in Annapolis later this summer. By 10, we were off to the airport, with bags that weigh twice as much as they did when we brought them down. Do you suppose I need to declare all that moisture and mildew to the U.S. Customs Service? <br><br>Our flight departs at 12:36 p.m., and we get to the airport just a few minutes before the recommended 2 hours in advance. This seems to be magical, because we get through the check-in line (which includes hand inspection of all bags) in a matter of minutes. At almost exactly 10:35 a.m., a huge mob of people arrives, but we’re already limin’ in the benches outside the terminal, waiting for a breakfast order of conch fritters.<br><br>Because of bad weather in Miami, the Eagle was late in arriving and late in departing. We had a very long layover in Miami, so we didn’t care, but those with late connections missed them. Immigration went quickly, but our bags were delayed reaching the Customs baggage claim area; once we got them, we went through Customs quickly as well. However, after that and after re-checking bags, arriving passengers are tossed back into the teeming maw of MIA, requiring going through security again. We had lots of time, and the security lines weren’t too bad, but this could be a problem for others. The bad weather, which had cleared the Abacos but not yet Florida, was delaying flights, so our departing flight to BWI left late as well. We didn’t get home til midnight.<br><br>CLOSING THOUGHTS:<br><br>Needless to say, this was hardly the vacation of our dreams. But we “go wid da flow” (in this case, literally and figuratively) and make the best of things. After all, we are in one of the loveliest places in the world, and we are together and not at work. I love coming here, knowing that familiar beloved spots won’t change much from visit to visit, but also that there are new places to explore. We’ve left the cays north of Green Turtle un-touched, so we have no choice but to return. Maybe next time it won’t be a mere vacation, but an extended cruise … but first I gotta get back into the groove of working so I can save up the money to do it again!<br><br>
