Alive and Loving Life SOB (South of the Border)

She's Back!!!! I can't believe it's been so long since I've written. I have been busy and I've got a lot of catching up to do. But guess what? I'm going on vacation back to the Abacos. I can't miss Pete's Birthday Party down at Pete's Pub. If you want to read a modern day Swiss Family Robinson story just google Pete Johnston or his father Randolph Johnston. If my math is right this is Pete's 15th annual 50th birthday party. But just so you know I've been busy, here is a link to check out what I've been up to and after more than a year of doing this blog I've finally posted my pic. The people that know and love me will recognize me right away. Just to see how well they know me, let's ask them what's in that glass. Here's the link to the Chelem Kids' Christmas. The guy that did this video did a fantastic job. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQeYlW8eKgw

Survival 151

How did two 80+ year old nuns end up sitting in their lawn chairs, wearing their bathing suits and drinking Kalik at Baker’s Bay?

Now remember, what happens in Abaco stays in Abaco. No calls to the Vatican, please.

I am about to share with you my most valued advice. A treasured piece of advice I share with only my closest confidants. It is………………………………………………..

How to throw a great party in the islands.

What?

You say you’ve heard that all you have to do is make an announcement on the radio and people will come from islands unseen just to party.

Damn! Somebody must have leaked my secret.

The cap’n and I had been hiding out at Baker’s Bay for about 3 weeks and were running dangerously low on the essentials of life like coconut rum, anejo rum, spiced rum, dark rum, light rum and just plain old rum. We were contemplating doing something desperate like pulling up anchor and heading to civilization and I was looking forward to putting some clothes on when the cap’n came up with one of his brilliant ideas.

“Let’s have a party!”

“Honey, remember how we just discussed the fact that we don’t have any booze. Can you tell me how many bottles of booze I’m holding up?” I patiently ask my obviously sun-addled cap’n.

“Uh…, Zero?” guesses my proud cap’n.

“Exactly!” I sneer. “Which is exactly why we can’t have a friggin’ party!”

The cap’n waggles his finger at me and raises a diabolical eyebrow.

"Just watch."

He picks up the VHF mike and makes our distress call.

“Party at Baker’s Bay at sunset.”

Later that afternoon I’m dessicating in the cockpit and contemplating which finger I’m going to prick to suck life-saving sustenance from. The capn’s finger, of course. His blood has gotta be at least 90 proof. I’m licking my cracked peeling lips when a mirage appears on the horizon. White billowy, puffy things shimmering on the waves. I lift my weak skeletal arms and give out a pitiful croak.

“What the hell?” “They’re real!”

I jump up and holler down at the cap’n.

“Put some clothes on, for Chrissake!”

We’re saved.

An hour later there are close to 40 dinghies pulled up on shore. There is live karaoke, thanks to our best friend Tom on sv Becky Thatcher, there is meat sizzling on the grill and best of all there is rum.

Glorious, makes-life-worth-living, rum!

And that is how two 80+ year old nuns ended up in their lawn chairs, wearing their bathing suits and drinking Kaliks at Baker’s Bay.

Mary and the Cap’n got thirsty.

P.S. We weren't sure if the cap'n was channeling his inner Elvis in the lower pic or if he was having some sort of seizure. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

P.P.S. These pics are stolen from the website of Patrick on Synchronicity. I'll make you get in touch somehow, Pat.

Paradise Lost

“Memories are the playground of the mind.”
(From a fortune cookie given to me by a very special someone.)

From the log of Agur’s Wish:

January 6, 2004

As we approach the deserted beach we spy structures peeking through and, occasionally, towering above the dense foliage. We pull up to the abandoned dock. Alongside are the remains of pens that we imagine used to house winsome sea creatures forced into captivity for the pleasure of the inhabitants of this deserted stretch of island. Legend has it that one of these charming creatures escaped after being abandoned and left in the pens to die after the former occupants disappeared and never returned. Now locals tell how on sunlit days they catch glimpses of her and her offspring frolicking in the sparkling turquoise water that is their rightful home.

We creep our way into the dense jungle. The tall casuarinas filter the sunlight into shadows and their needles muffle our footsteps on the well worn path. The only sounds are the calls of the birds and insects and the roar of the ocean crashing on a beach we have yet to discover.

“Wow!” the cap’n whispers.

Before us is a huge amphitheater built with rough hewn logs. What did they use it for? Ancient rituals? Human sacrifices?

As we continue along the paths we come upon more ruins. Large open air structures perhaps used for communal meals and celebrations. A large tower that may have been used to spy approaching enemies or to send signals to neighboring islands. Rusting modes of transportation including a cart on a rail that might have been used to transport the weaker members of the tribe.

Eating and cooking utensils are strewn about. It looks as if they left in the middle of a big party. Where did they go. What happened to them?



“We could just settle here.” says the cap’n. “We could live off the sea and the land like Brooke Shields and Chris What-ever-his-name is in Blue Lagoon. We’d never have to put a stitch on!”

I actually consider it for a moment…until I swat my 457th no see-um.

And always that distant roaring ocean is calling us. We look for a break in the verdant overgrowth that will allow us access to this elusive beach but can find none.

We head back to the beach to see if we can find a path there. We come across two more settlements. These are small and rudimentary. Obviously camps for transient tribes in search of shelter and sustenance for a short time on their voyage to somewhere else. Each has left his mark. Their homelands are far-flung and their destinations unknown.

Finally we come upon another path. We wind our way through mangroves and past a tree adorned with an array of moldering footwear.

Finally we reach.

Endless beach and ocean greet us.

A beach that is unblemished except for what the ocean has cast upon her shores.

We are full-up with the wonder of that majestic ocean. She made this island and the reefs that protect it. She and her creatures are the only true stewards of this place.

But for awhile we’ll make it ours.


We were very blessed to have called that place our own for a time. Of course, we shared it with a lot of people who also thought of it as their own. Times change though. And now that place is just a fabled memory for those of us that loved it.

Remember though, even if we can’t call it ours anymore, we still have the responsibility to act as stewards to it and places like it.

Yes, there are still magical places out there.

NOW GO OUT AND MAKE SOME MEMORIES!

P.S. Jumping off my soapbox now. Can anybody guess where in the world Agur’s Wish was on January 6, 2004?

Later On

And back to my true vocation in life. The one for which I don’t get paid.

Now where were we?

“Cinnabar, Cinnabar,” a sultry voice beckons across the airways. And so our day begins in Spanish Wells, Eleuthera, Bahamas.

We jump off the back of our boat and walk to shore to take Stanley, the killer bichon for his morning rounds. No, we haven’t become so sanctified that we can now walk on water, we’ve only been here a couple of weeks, after all. Nope, it is just that tide is way out and as you know we’ve been there before (Somedays you watch the show. Somedays you are the show). However this time we are not alarmed since we are tied safely to a mooring and aren’t trying to slog our way through the mud in our usual means of navigation. We just have to walk sideways on the boat until the tide comes back in. Why don’t we move to another mooring in deeper water? Maybe later on. We kind of like being able to walk to shore.

Later on in the morning, Bradley Newbold, aka “Cinnabar” and the owner of the mooring we are tied to, stops by to say “Hello” and deliver a fresh baked loaf of Bahamian bread from his wife of the sultry voice.

Bradley said his wife was encouraging him to retire. Bradley is the other side of 80 so I assume his wife is of a like age. They must be living right in Spanish Wells. Bradley was also our pilot through the Devil’s Backbone when we finally decided to leave. Devil’s Backbone is a series of coral heads and reefs that is as bad as it sounds. And since I’ve detailed in several blogs, the magnetism that “skinny” water holds for us, we thought we’d save ourselves the mortification and repairs for once.

Later on we’ll wonder into town and head to “Teen Planet” our favorite lunch spot. The name reflects the fare of burgers, pizza, and, best of all, the first tacos we’ve found in the Bahamas. Not quite what you consider authentic Bahamian food? After awhile you get tired of eating grouper fingers, fried conch, and yes, even lobster. (Don’t hate me!) And let’s just say, Spanish Wells is not quite like the rest of the Bahamas. It is authentically unique.

The regulars at the Teen Planet include us in their idle island gossip as if we know who they were talking about. Why not? We’ve been there for all of two weeks.

Upstairs from Teen Planet is a theater where we attended a live, I swear to God, a real country music concert. It was a novel experience for us. It was the first time we’d ever listened to country music without the benefit of beer. The music was actually very good but it was lacking a crucial component for us. If I didn’t mention it before, Spanish Wells is dry. No beach bars, no tiki huts, no icy sweet umbrella drinks sweating in your hands. It was whispered to us though that there was a lady that sold it out her back door or you can dinghy across to another island that has a liquor store, or you can catch the ferry/towboat that makes regular stops there. You knew there had to be a way if the cap’n and I stayed there for 6 weeks.

Later on we wonder through the town down to the park by the bridge. It has a beautiful pristine pink sand beach, but best of all it has public bathrooms with showers. As we stroll the lanes lined with tidy houses and well kept yards, the locals call out greetings and wave as they whiz by in their cars of golf carts. Why not? As I said we’d been there two weeks.

Later on we make tracks for Tom and Jean’s for the nightly cocktail gathering and meanwhile I’ll browse for any new books that might have been dropped off at their book exchange that is housed in the living room of their house. Tom and Jean are former boaters (actually, they still have a boat moored out in the mooring field) that pulled in and fell in love with the place. This is a well known hazard to navigation. They now open their home to wayward sailors and other souls for nightly rounds of prohibited libations and ribald chat.

Later on we wind our way back down to the waterfront which is lined with groups of locals sitting and chatting in the twilight. They murmur goodnight as we pass by.

Later on we’ll loose Agur’s Wish from the mooring and sail over to ‘Briland (Harbour Island) and hang out with Mick and Cher.

Later on…..

As I’ve said before, I don’t make this stuff up!

Spanish Wells, Eleuthera, Bahamas

SCUM ALERT!
I was receiving some really weird comments so I've had to add the word verification for comments. Hopefully, the creep can't read or it's been an automated response. Please don't let this stop you from commenting, I love to hear from you.

Sorry for Neglecting You

I am back in the land of work, busy ridding Great Bend, KS of appendixes, gallbladders and uteruses (or uterii). This is what I did for 20 yrs. before I moved onboard a boat. And no it is not just like riding a freakin' bike. Anyway, I'm ready for a little comic relief too, so when I quit having nightmares about dropping the baby during a C-section I'll be back blogging.

"Skeeter" Gets Swatted By Mother Nature

This picture was taken early in the day. The grandkid now swears he's never going sailing again! The morning of "Skeeter's maiden voyage started out benign enough, as a matter of fact it was downright boring. We'd raise the sails get a few good puffs of wind then the wind would disappear and we'd start the motor, then the wind would pick up and we'd raise the sails, then the wind would...Oh hell, you know the routine. We tucked into a few little crannies and let the grandkid swim and grinned like idiots when we grounded the boat and pushed her off by ourselves.

Pookah hailed us on the VHF and welcomed us to High Country sailing while we lamented the lack of Mother Nature's natural propulsion source that day.

"Just wait," replied Pookah, a little ominously I thought.

We didn't have to wait long.

Pretty soon a frisky little wind started to build and we raised the sails again and Skeeter was galloping along. Then...right when we were coming about...

BAM!

The wind decided it didn't want us to come about and whipped the lines out of our hands and into the water. The boom slammed and the grandkid screamed, or maybe that was me. Skeeter tried to rid itself of its contents but we held on tight

Boats aren't supposed to do that! Bad Boat! My old boat never did that! My old boat displaced 39,000 pounds and that was without all of our crap on it.

Just like the early part of the day, the wind died, we started the engine and we limped back to the mooring field where of course the wind picked back up as we tried to pick up our mooring.

Okay, Mother Nature had put us firmly back in our place. So what if we'd sailed a big sailboat on a big ocean, she could still kick our ass if she wanted too.

I wanted to echo the grandkid's declaration to never go sailing again, but I'd said it too many times before.

Some Days You Watch The Show, Some Days You Are The Show

As I reported in my last blog, we eventually did leave Abaco.

On an early morning breeze we sailed out of the Bight of Old Robinson and through the Little Harbour cut to islands unknown.

The voyage was not a memorable one (always a good thing) and we coasted into the Royal Island Harbour by early evening. We toasted ourselves on our escape from the nirvana of the Abacos.

The next day we explored the ruins of the W.P. Stewart compound. As we walked the paved roads, sat at the bar of the main house, and admired (and tried to pry up) the beautiful ceramic tiles throughout the buildings, we tried to imagine how somebody managed to build all of this back in the 1930’s. Then we wondered how they managed to leave it all behind. Sadly we some of the last ones to walk it’s paths. Helicopters were already circling above, their occupants planning their grand ideas for this beautiful island.

The next night was the capn’s birthday. As usual, we had already made the acquaintance of several other boaters. There was no way this popular anchorage was going to be a “nekkid” one so we were playing it nice.

So, let the games begin. In our case, you can take the boat away from the party or you can take the party with you. At some point during the party, the birthday boy thought the wind generator was making too much noise. So he decided to stop it. No, he didn’t use the handy-dandy safety cord. Why mess with the middle man? No, instead he went straight to the source and grabbed, or tried to grab, a blade. The offended blade took a big old boat chomp (all those little toes stubs and head bumps are piddly little boat bites) and kept on spinning. Leaving something barely identifiable dangling from his hand.

Now don’t get to excited, it wasn’t as bad as it looked, we hoped. After cleaning up the blood, we wrapped up the shredded digit and partied on. We weren’t going to scare our guests off that easily. You can’t let a little thing like a severed thumb ruin a good party. If only there would have been a Wendy’s around.

The next morning the cap’n dragged me out of my bunk and thrust a needle and thread into my clammy shaky hands. Without the aid of liquid courage on my part but a healthy shot of lidocaine for the cap’n (when we’re not sailing and drinking this is what we do for a living. Scarey, huh?) I think I did a pretty darn good job of darning his thumb. He still has it.

One day for recovery from the surgery and the birthday party and we were off to Spanish Wells, which is dry (kinda). Thank goodness! We were ready for some rest and recovery.

"Honey, do I need to make ready for sea?"

“Nah,” comes the capn’s ready reply, “I can see it from here.”

Although we can see the entrance to Spanish Wells once we leave Royal Island’s harbour the cap’n goes ahead and hooks the GPS up to the computer so we can make sure the boat knows where it’s going.

Soon we can see the entrance markers. However, unbeknownst to us we are actually looking at the second entrance marker. We missed the first one while we were watching the little boat thing follow the mythical, and in this case, inaccurate path on the computer. But now that we are using our spare, secondary navigational aids, our eyes, we see that not only did we miss the first marker but as usual we’re on the wrong side of it. We crank the helm sharply to the left. We’re just feet from the channel when we hear that familiar “Thud” and all forward progress stops. You guessed it. We’re aground. Again. http://firstmatemary.blogspot.com/2008/09/hitting-rock-bottom.html We wiggle and waggle our butt end but as usual we can’t climb off that undersea mountain.

“Not to worry,” says the cap’n. “Tides coming in, it’ll float us off in no time.”

Of course, we haven’t escaped the notice the attention of the dozens of boats coasting up and down the channel that is right off our nose.

The radio crackles to life.

“Captain Ignoramus on the fat-bottomed sailboat on the obvious wrong side of the obvious channel, are you aground?”

Hey, who’s calling who an Ignoramus. Obviously, he can’t recognize the obvious either.

“Do you need a tug” comes the inquiry.

“No thanks,” the cap’n replies, “We’ll just wait until the tide comes in.”

An undignified snort comes from the other end of the airwaves and I’m pretty sure we hear guffaws in the background.

“Ahem, Captain you’ll be waiting quite awhile then. Tides going out”

About this time we start to notice a noticeable lean to port.

That damn computer! It had gotten the tide tables wrong….again. It had to be the computer’s fault, it couldn’t be some lingering sluggish (or downright dead) synapses from the birthday party or the previous year and a half in Abaco.

At least we were fortunate that Spanish Wells had a tow boat. What we didn’t know that the tow boat was in all actuality it’s ferry boat. And, of course, it was full of locals and tourists that were more than eager to delay their travel to help a vessel in distress.

And take pictures….

And videos…

Videos with audio.

Oh, Boy! Aren’t we lucky!

We thought we had reached the heights of our humiliation. If we only knew. It was about to get worse and worser.

The little tugboat that thought he could….couldn’t. No matter how hard he huffed and puffed. And passengers on the stern clicking and recording and asking us to smile were really starting to piss me off.

And of course, all the experts on all things of sailing nature were holding a symposium and buzzing around us in their dinghy’s like gnats. Rubbing their whiskers and espousing wisdom.

“Looks like your stuck.”

Duh!

“If you’d just gone on the other side of those markers u da been fine.”

Double Duh!

We even met up with our old friend Rick , from s/v Callaloo, who we hadn’t seen since we left Titusville two years ago. (A First Mate's Rule of the Road #256: Just like when you go to the grocery store without make-up, hoping you won't run into anyone you know...you will. And when you do something stupid on a boat and hope that no one you know will be there...they will.)


“What ya’ll been up to?”

“Uh, Rick, this really isn’t a good time for us. Can we catch up with you and Connie later?”

By this time one of the members of the dinghy council made the motion that we attach a line to the mast and pull her over. A vote was taken and the “Ayes” had it. I think they were just excited by the fact that although they had heard of this being done, none of them had ever seen it. Now, they were going to be a part of sailing history. And they had the pictures to prove it.

So a line was attached to our topping lift and one of the sturdier little boats took it and began to pull Agur’s Wish over as the tug/ferry boat tugged us toward the channel.

Slowly and surely, inch by inch Agur’s Wish slid her ass down the mountain and into the channel.

Cheers erupt and glasses are raised.

Problem over!

You think?

Now that the show is over, the passengers of the ferry/tug boat are eager to be about their way but…..the cap’n can’t get the line untied. So he hollers at me to go below and get a knife. (Why does he never wear that leatherman I got him?)

I go below to total devastation. Silverware on the floor, books in a heap….That’s probably what happened to that damn bell we’ve never been able to find.

I’m rooting around in the mess trying to find a sharp implement when I hear someone yell,

“Hey, you idiots, someone needs to be driving the boat!”

Okay, he didn’t actually say idiot but we knew who he was talking about.

I popped my head up the companionway to see that our boat was now free and headed right for the breakwater. The cap’n is still on the bow and giving me the evil eye. I surmised pretty quickly that I was the idiot that was supposed to be driving the boat .

We didn’t hit the breakwater. It was the only thing that went right that day. A little while later we were secure on our mooring and the cabin was put back to rights.

And Boy Oh Boy, did we need a drink!

P.S. You know there's always a P.S. We were moored next to the artist of the map of Spanish Wells along with his beautiful wife and young daughter. Spanish Wells is a very special place and I'll have more to say about it.

Since we have cleaned off the boat I am anxious to go through our old pics and the ones we have on the old computer and hopefully add them to my blog. That way I can quit stealing from others.