The overnight passage from Little San Salvador to Cat Island in the Bahamas had been tough. We were tired and punchy, but happy to be settled in such a beautiful stretch of white sand and crystal turquoise water. Anchor was set in heavy sand in 5 meters depth with a 7:1 scope so Galini was having a rest too. You could see the stainless chain stretch to the buried anchor on the bottom, like a glimmering silver snake long and slender. A good sight it was, comforting knowing Galini was snug. We tidied up the boat a bit and in for a nap, since sleep had been in short supply over the last 24 hours. Upon awakening, Mark, Linda, and myself decided to radio in to the lone marina on the tine island and ask if a restaurant dinner was available. Why yes! Turns out the marina had a fine restaurant and there was a table free for us that evening. Six-thirty pm? Fine it is.
After a nice swim we headed out in our dinghy in fresh clothes looking forward to a savory treat. It was about a mile or so to get to the marina, along the beach front dotted with coral heads we went. Zagging through the enveloping water we could easily see and dodge the dark patches of coral as they rose from the bottom like upward reaching arms of life toward the surface. I could imagine all of the aquatic activity around each one. A microcosm world known only to its inhabitants and the occasional visitor seeking glimpse of a world vastly different from the human one. Each coral crop is a world unique, like fingerprints that are stamped into the fabric of individual hands. I never tire of searching these worlds, like I never tire of watching the sea pass as Galini explores.
As we got closer to the inlet cut that leads to the marina, we needed to veer further offshore to go around a larger reef that lay alongside the rock piled jetty. I could see the breaking waves along the reef easily so I steered clear of the present danger and entered the channel. It was lined by piled rock, narrow with flat water that lead straight to a small large vessel marina that was still under construction. The docks were made of large fixed pilings that rose like wooded bluffs above the water 10 feet or so to stand strong and firm. The marina was clearly built for larger vessels, sport fishers and power yachts. Sailboats were not a consideration. Only a few boats were in and we found it mostly empty. At the last dock, we tied up the dingy next to a ladder and climbed ashore.
We met the marina owner, Andrew, who was happy to see us. A gregarious and jolly soul, he showed us around the small complex where he and his wife were refurbishing a number of quaint small bungalows, a meeting house, laundry facilities, and a store. There is an airstrip immediately next to the marina, where Andrew caters to fly in or boat in vacationers. Andrew himself is a pilot and quipped, “Need to be. How else to get out of here when the weather gets really bad? My trawler is great by 7 knots is sometimes not fast enough.” Most visitors to Crooked Island seek the abundant fishing and diving opportunities the island offers and Andrew hopes to build a special secluded paradise for those that make the journey. He showed us the restaurant and we were met by Brianna, a local from Cat Island who was to be our chef for the evening and Gerard, our server and entertainer. Not surprisingly, we were the only customers that evening. Dinner was lovely. A fixed menu that started with cauliflower fritters, so light and puffed with a creamy sensation of buttery corn meal. Wonderful. Next was a garden salad, followed by a wonderful plate of garlic mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and fresh caught Wahoo. The fish was grilled with an adornment of island spice mix, not strong, but blended sizzle that tingled the palate with quizzical desire. I love wahoo, a dense white fish, with thick flaky strands of tender goodness. Gerard and Brittaney were lovely, we thoroughly enjoyed our meal in a relaxed kindly setting that breezed through several hours of sharing conversation of island life, where to go for beaches, snorkeling, and how each of us ends up at one place in a moment of time.
Then, came time to leave. Night now, about 9 pm. Walking back to the dingy we noted the gorgeous clear night, milky way stretching across the sky directly above and the universe of distant suns that are certainly populated by countless worlds. The moon would not be up for about another 2 hours and it was dark. Fire up the outboard, turn into the channel and realize that our trip back to Galini was going to be without much visual aid. We had remembered to bring our phones, a 3000-lumen flood light, security chain for the dingy, dry bag with a change of shirts, oars, and light rain jackets. Enough for our night out I had thought when leaving for dinner. Mark held the flood light in front of us to guide the path. It was not easy as the dingy was tossed a little, but not violently, by the light chop. Still the flood beam of focused light illuminated the near path, and provided some guidance for what lay ahead. But the light beam is not wide, so one sees only a narrow portion of the visible spectrum and the dark surround remains unknown, mysterious, hidden. I drove as Mark did his best to anticipate where the waves would be and we searched for the rock jetties and breaking reef mostly from memory. The sea had died down since we came in earlier and the breaking waves we could hear, but not see. I went out further from shore than I remembered the reef to be for safety, but I retained a nagging feeling that it might not be far enough and coral could be lurking just ahead.. Or worse, an unseen wave could come crashing from the side to topple us. Then what? There were very few lights, then none, as the marina faded out of sight. The jetties had no day marks or lighted aids, so I was steering by sound, memory, and my navigation “nose”. We were totally out of sight of any visual land reference, surrounded only by water and looking for the breaking reef that had been our landmark to round before heading down the beach back to our boat. It was then that Linda called out. What fools we are! We have no life jackets and no hand-held VHF radio. She further mused that we could become shortly become the latest local news story. Like those we sometimes read about where three people in a dingy get washed out to sea and are found days or weeks later with no food, no water and cell phones that have no reception. When I have read such accounts in the past, I have often thought to myself, “what idiots, I would never do that”. Well, now I was the idiot. Nervous laughter followed as we realized the fact that we indeed could easily make the morning corner story from the Bahamas. In all seriousness, what I had done, or not done, was an act of sheer stupidity, nothing less. Something one did when we were 16 years old, care free and invincible. Not the actions one would expect from people in their sixties; hardened by priors. Let alone me with a captain’s license, for which I had worked hard; with nearly 50 years of boating experience, and a fair amount of off-shore sailing. Still, I am new to cruising with a lot to learn still. Galini is my discovery vessel and it is my responsibility to think ahead and watch out for the safety of all who sail with her. Ugg. With that thought in my awareness, the next half hour of dinghy ride back to the boat was a little nervous, to be honest. I had no choice but to literally follow the star constellations, the few I know and their known positions to get a sense of heading back around the coral heads in a direction that would lead to Galini. I tried in vain to discern the beach from the water. With no moon light, the shore and water’s edge were melded together into a dark blur of confusion and guess. Was that a shoreline or a wave? Thankfully, a few lights of the one or two small rental cottages that dotted the shoreline appeared. These became a linear reference that I used to judge our distance to the shoreline. I needed to be far enough out to miss the coral outcroppings we had zagged through so joyfully on the way to dinner. It worked. At last, we saw the mooring lights of the sister sailboats anchored next to us. I headed for them. We found Galini in the middle of the pack and climbed aboard. We then laughed at our idiocy and Mark joked that we should never tell anyone about what had happened. Well, so it goes. Sixteen or sixty, cognitive awareness can mean the difference between tears of joy or tears of sorrow. Lessoned learned and all future offshore dingy travel will be well supplied, guided by a little newly gained wisdom and much grace from a higher power.
