|
|
|
|
|
The
Barrie Stick |
|
"Can't go out on de Banks without a barrie
stick," said Reverend A.A. McKenzie. He went into his simple house
where I heard him use a hand saw. He came out with a stick. The Reverend
was dark as his doorway, and strong. "Nevah whack 'im," the
Reverend said. "Jus' push 'im down." The Reverend poked as at
a dog he wanted to drown. We imagined a giant, hypnotized barracuda
settle down through blue water to white sand. "He quiet now,"
soothed the Reverend. "That how to use a barrie stick." The
Reverend waved a little flag. "Nevah in my life see a woman paddle
to Nassau on a surfing board... An' you old." "Fifty-four," I said, taped the flag to the
stern of my board. "Five dollars fo' de flag," said the
Reverend. I admired the Bahamas in its flag: blue, gold and black;
water, sun, and the Bahamian people. Kneeling by my 14 ft. long, 2 ft.
wide paddleboard, I packed to paddle 150 miles up the Exuma island chain
to Nassau. I used no paddle or sail, just swam along like a surfer. I'd
made my simple vessel seaworthy, bolted on a net carry-all, added a soft
deck pad. I had a rudder to steer in crosswinds, and carried GPS, VHF,
first aid kit, and lots of water. I'd come 20 miles from George Town, commerce and
gossip hub of the Exumas, overnighted in traditional Rolleville on the
north end of Great Exuma Island. Next day I crossed a lagoon to the island of
Barreterre, the Reverend's home. The flutter of my new $5 flag urged me
not let the Bahamas down. I struggled into a full red-and-blue Lycra
suit, dark goggles, safari hat. Barrie stick and the Reverend's prayers
with me, I paddled into the jade distance. The Exuma Cays curved like a
spine toward Nassau. I would island-hop north, overnighting on inhabited
islands. Crossing Exuma Banks to my lunch stop six miles away I felt the
power of the Exumas: A knife blade dividing its own nature into
opposites, disparities falling to either side of the blade. The islands
themselves divided the sheltered, shallow Exuma Banks from deep water,
wild waves and wind in Exuma Sound. Slipping downwind, I felt vulnerable. But all the
danger had the blue-greenness and purity of gemstone, and I wondered if
death out there might hold a kind of historic ecstasy. Like being a
prehistoric insect suddenly congealed in amber. The grandeur was
intimidating. I was pleased to reach Lee Stocking Island, base for the
Caribbean Research Center, and for marine biology students from the
University of Florida. Watching me paddle in, students were tentative.
Maybe I was a bum floated down from New York. The students threw me
water and a sandwich. Silver fry schooled around my legs. A barracuda
drifted in. Time for the barrie stick? The big predator was only a
sculptor, parting the fry in artistic patterns with his gray tail. Next I peeked at Bailey's charts. Bailey, a Navy
Sealish hardcore I met in George Town, had debriefed me on the Exumas.
Bailey had drawn a thoroughbred line through the sheaf of charts I now
carried, waterproof, on my paddleboard. I reeled in Bailey's blue
line through, between and among jewels of the Exumas, up from Musha Cay
to Lee Stocking Island ( my 3rd overnight ). I was convinced the Exumas
must approve of my pure paddling: The universe poured its blue blood
through the wild cuts between ragged limestone islands. The heat, the
hot wind, the blue flame on the bottoms of clouds melted all into
jewelry. Can't get much better, I thought of the scenery. But
it always did. Though 20 miles from Barreterre, Musha Cay came right up
as just another increment of beauty. Bailey had said Musha Cay was not
yet an exclusive resort, but would open soon. Bailey knew a caretaker on
the island; she allowed me stay in the V.I.P. children's dorm. My guide
just said about the resort: "You're our first guest". Next day, I crossed the cut north to Cave Cay, but
remembered Bailey's red arrow on my chart, the warning of dangerous
current too late. Tidal current between islands could run up to 8 knots.
Gently, I was gathered by smooth waves in the cut. Soon, bucking 6 to 8
ft. reversal waves (The
current combined with breaking ocean waves ), I clung to the tail of my
board in a race for the windy depths of Exuma Sound. Knocked off my
board, all I could do was tow the board to the side of the current. It
would be a long wait for the change of tides. I paddled in to a
surf-battered windward beach and portaged through brush and sharp
limestone over Cave Cay to the lee coast. Finishing the portage, which
took four hours, I saw no water moved in the cut. Soon the tide flowed
back to Exuma Banks at 8 knots. Tame, curly-tailed lizards, and perhaps
workers on Musha Cay, had seen me demonstrate the folly of my sport: a
helluva lot of work for nothing. A downwind glide of a few miles took me up to Little
Farmer's Cay. The most stressful event I could see for locals on Little
Farmer's might have been extracting conch from its shell. This was
accomplished by banging a hole in a whorl at the back of the conch. The
creature was then divested of its tough skin, chopped and fed to me with
lime and hot sauce. Exploring the tiny island, I found Corinne Baine, in
her eighties, relaxing by her simple house on a door strung between two
palm trees. Corinne told me island lore so peaceful I fell asleep on her
porch. That night a tropical depression with lightning, hard
winds and rain moved through. Locals warned me in the morning to stay put, but
Guana Cay was close to little Farmer's, so I decided to go for it
anyway. Ten miles long, Great Guana Cay was arranged like dominoes,
black cliffs against white beaches. Prominent on my chart were White
Point, a beach, and Black Point, a cliff. I would overnight in a
settlement near Black Point. After feasting at White Point on Corinne's
fresh sapodilla fruit, I heard a thunderclap. The weather was
greenish-black. I pulled my board into a ragged, undercut cave full of
wind and sloshing sea water. Lightning dropped in bent, silver straws
from cloud to sea. A lightning bolt raised a phosphorescent dome from
the ocean. The hair on my hands stood up. The metal rudder on my board
gleamed like Kryptonite. Don't worry, I lived. After the bold sunset had chased off the storm, I
came out like a terrified kid for a look. A chiton, a small mollusk,
glowed like an inner-lit emerald in a clear pool of rain. The red sun,
on its way down, returned the still greenness to the Exuma Banks. I
reveled in the post-storm moment, so didn't make it to Black Point
before dark. Black Point was full of friendly locals, but its only
memories were of sleep and adequate food. It was only a few miles from
Black Point to Staniel Cay, so I set out in the morning. Midpoint in the
Exuma chain, and precious to expat homeowners and beam-me-up tourists,
Staniel Cay, was said to have a haughty pride. It's heart was Exumian as
this local story proved: A woman had gone to re-stock her boat at a
Staniel Cay store. Finding only Spam on dusty shelves, the woman burst
into tears. "I have lots of money," she wept, "but
there's nothing here for me to buy." Nurse Mary Fadden who, with her husband Glen, had
built St. Luke's Clinic, nurtured me on Staniel Cay. Nurse Fadden, an
unpaid volunteer, was in her seventies and saw, on average, fifty
patients a day. Complaints ranged from warts to cardiac arrest. The last
I heard, the jury was still out on canonization for Nurse Mary Fadden. Thunder was my reveille on Staniel Cay. As usual, I
inspected a mustering troop of fluffy clouds for signs of irascibility.
In the Exumas, the tiniest cloud could explode upward like a space ship,
then change into a muttering giant wielding high voltage and wind.
Paddling, I only felt safe if I saw shoreline with trees and rocks--or a
harbor. Searching Compass Cay, for its harbor, I found a
homey, little yacht anchored in a blue pool among sandbars. The skipper
looked at me and said, "Thought you were a thief. I was gonna get
my gun." I begged for food and was gone. Near Compass Cay Marina, I
caught a dock piling to avoid being swept off by current. Nearby was an
anchored scow. "Dog House" was painted in red on the stern. On
top of the dog house as usual was Snoopy. The Czechoslovakian skipper
Leo waved me on for the night. Leo was a hoarder, but he had the
appetite and food supply of an anorexic. Dinner--and breakfast--aboard
Dog House was a piece of bread and a beer. But I was glad for my bunk. Paddling twenty miles to Warderick Wells fueled with
a piece of bread and beer drove me to hallucinate the Park Headquarters
on Warderick Wells. From the distant end of its island, the hilltop
headquarters looked like a Rajah palace. I paddled in like a windmill
and asked the first human, "Can I work for food?" I'd run out
of cash. Evelyn Darville, a stately woman married to Ray, Warden of
Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park, said, "Yes.", and handed me a
slop bucket which I dumped off the dock to feed tame fish. Warderick Wells was a good place to get strong. The
Darvilles liked volunteers. I scrubbed, hacked at shrubs, baby-sat
Patrick and Jonathan, the Darvilles' two kids. Ray offered to escort me
in the official Park Warden boat across the Wide Opening, six miles of
open water between Warderick Well and its northern neighbor Cistern Cay. Ray patrolled his 22-mile-long park with an armed
guard from the Bahamas Defense Force. Poachers had made threats on Ray's
life. The guard, six-foot-five, 300 lbs., and cradling an automatic
weapon, helped Ray escort me over the Wide Opening. Herded by the guard
and the Park Warden, I felt exotic. Ray's stewardship of me was hawk-
like. Yet he might dart off after some rare fish, or see a poacher and
give chase. Ray Darville was the Clint Eastwood of the Exumas. Off the south end of Norman Cay, my second-to-last
stop, I found my perfect island. I might say leave my ashes on Shroud
Cay because I knew it could never be done. Shroud Cay was merely a
vague, rocky frame around the best Exumian artwork, a pure seawater
lagoon in which were only fish--including a barrie-stickable
barracuda--and grand reflections of sky and cloud. An inundated aircraft welcomed me in to Norman Cay.
Submerged to the propellers, the old hijacking plane was like the ghost
of the drug frog now turned into a princely island. Norman Cay, once a
crossroads in drug traffic, was now safe for paddleboarders, tourists,
and entrepreneurs. Dale and his wife Marie had founded a polished,
eccentric new resort, McDuffs. Melted together by the tropics, Dale
& Marie were flyers. Planes thundered in inches from the resort.
Exumian pioneers, Dale and Marie flew by the seat of their pants. Dale
put me to work, then dispatched me on.
Highbourne Cay, my last Exuma, might disappoint those
purified by the deep Exumas. For me, it was culture shock, gray-windowed
motor yachts and people too busy to say hello. Still, the environment
around Cheap Charles, a tiny yachtie store, was extra-friendly. For my
36-mile crossing to Nassau, I would get a chase boat. Skipper Cliff
Wilson looked at my board and said, "Hey, it's just a plank."
"Funny," Cliff said said, "just yesterday a boatman here
died and left on a plank."
|
|
Copyright © 2001 Susan Chaplin. All rights reserved. |
