Big Bubba Bites the Dust

Warderick Wells
These islands all look remarkably similar. Shimmering turquoise water, hardy scrub vegetation and blinding white sand. I’ve taken just one photo. As we move about, it’s much easier to simply change the name on it. But there is variety. One cay will boast a high-class resort; its harbor overflowing with huge fiberglass yachts. (Which also look remarkably similar.) The next island will be deserted; the fanciest thing on it being a termite mound. And so it goes in varied forms. The one I’m on currently is in Exuma Park. It has a ranger station, a Royal Bahamian Defense Force Squad and a few conspicuous park volunteers. Perhaps twenty people total. The queen bee is a volunteer. Even the defense guys defer to her. She’s a pleasant middle-aged woman with great tits. That may have something to do with it. The park exists through the efforts of folks like her. Their mission is to preserve the marine culture. It’s a “no kill” zone. Fish live and breed here in safety. Some have gotten really big. A few have been here so long they‘ve acquired names. There’s a pair of lemon sharks, “Boo Boo” and her big brother, “The Harbormaster”, plus a huge snapper named “Stan”. A large nurse shark lives in the hull of a sunken cabin cruiser. Nobody’s named her yet. We’ll call her “Nancy”. I learned all this from the weekly happy hour they have for visitors. After gleaning these insights from a volunteer, I chatted up a defense guy. I asked him if he saw much action in the area.
“We catch the occasional smuggler” he answered. “I got reprimanded recently for handcuffing some guy to a tree for too long.”
“How long was that?” I asked.
“Long enough for the mosquitoes to find him” he replied. 
(Note: If you plan on running a smuggling operation in the Exumas, pack plenty of bug spray.)
“Anything more serious?” I inquired. 
“Well, there was “Bubba”….
..... His boat crew had just finished their daily patrol. They were lounging around the barracks when a call came in. It was from one of the dedicated volunteers a few islands down. OIt was on the emergency channel.
“Come quick. They’ve killed Bubba!”
The entire contingent sprang into action. Grabbing guns and armor, they sprinted to their boats. Half were still barefoot. Minutes later, they shot into Bell Island. A small tramp steamer flying the Panamanian flag was tied to the dock where four or five guys in ragged clothes were lazily unloading cargo. A skinny kid in cut-offs was finishing cleaning a fish. Suddenly, the Panamanians found themselves surrounded. Big guys in flak jackets were pointing AK-47’s at them.
“Where’s Bubba?” the flak jackets hollered.
The Panamanians stared at them. Dumbstruck. 
“Where’s the body?” the RBDF captain demanded.
“Que?” one of them ventured. None of them spoke English.
An earnest and dedicated volunteer appeared. The one who’d made the distress call. 
“That’s him!” she shouted pointing at the kid bagging up the fish. “He’s got Bubba!”
“Where?” the Bahamians shouted at her.
“There!” she shouted back. She was pointing at the bag of filets.
“Bubba”, the pride and joy of the Exuma Park Volunteers had recently been a five-foot long barracuda. He usually hung around the harbor back at home, eating scraps the cruisers tossed overboard. Unfortunately, he’d decided to take a stroll that day. The Panamanians had noticed the large green signs in the harbor saying “No Fishing. Protected Zone”. They thought they looked pretty. (They couldn’t read English either.) While they were unloading, the kid had tossed out a line. Up had come Bubba.
The Defense Force had a good laugh. Before they headed back to their base, they gave the foreign crew a stern lecture. In sign language, I presume. 
And that’s how Bubba bit the dust, or in this case, the hook. I’m unclear who, if anyone, got to eat Bubba. But I hope to find out. There’s a birthday party for one of the defense men on Wednesday. They promised there will be beer and Goombay Punch. Plus plenty of their favorite dish, barracuda.