GEORGETOWN

Now here’s an interesting place. My first impression wasn’t positive. We pulled into a decaying dock. When I leapt off the boat to tie up the bow line, a three inch splinter caught my foot. That’s what I get for forgetting my top-sidders. You generally dock (as opposed to anchoring) for four important reasons. Power, fuel, showers and internet. They had power. It was sporadic. The showers were hilarious. The door lock was broken. So they jammed a broken stick through the latch. It looked suspiciously like a piece of the dock. A cranky older woman cleaned them daily. She lectured me on the importance of keeping the stick in place, less the door swing open. No one had considered simply fixing the lock. Only one shower worked. It trickled a tiny stream of cold water that instantly turned scalding. It took me a while to beat it. I found a bucket onboard. I’d fill it w/cold water from their sink and trickle in some hot. Then I’d dump the whole thing over my head.
The dock master, an elderly gentleman named Flanders, spoke an unintelligible form of patois. I deciphered they were out of fuel. He might even had known when they would be resupplied. Damn if I could figure it out. But that’s OK. We weren't in any hurry. Plus he wore a cool cap that said “Emerald Bay”. That’s the other marina up the road. The one we should’ve been in.
The town is a bit ramshackle. That surprised me. I expected colonial buildings w/a smartly dressed policeman in a white pith helmet orderly directing traffic. The cop was missing. But not the traffic. They drive like Miamians and speed through town, school zones and pedestrian crossings like they were on fire. The dents speak for themselves. Signs are ignored. I found an uprooted caution sign in the bush. Likely hurled there after someone plowed into it. If demolition derby ever makes a comeback, Exuman's will rule. We tried riding our bikes a few times. Then gave up. It was way too dangerous.
Most of the visiting mariners anchor across the harbor. Off Stocking Island. It gives good protection and has a gorgeous beach. But we’ve stayed away. The steady “thump, thump” of disco music permeates the area. If I want Miami Beach, I know where to find it.

My initial negative impression evaporated when I discovered Fish Fry Beach, twenty-odd brightly painted wooden shacks situated north of town at the old navy dock selling succulent snapper, grouper, conch, hog fish and barracuda (eat at your own risk). One little joint will have sports on. The next, rhythm and blues. My fav is “Tino’s”. The walls and ceilings are papered w/$1 bills. Folks write their names and quotable quotes on them. How the owner convinces people to leave good money is a testament to his business prowess. There’s little doubt he could be a successful politician if he chose to. Instead “Mr. Roy” holds court behind a tiny bar blaring the best music Stax Records ever recorded. Everyone stops there. Cops, criminals, politicos, you name it. I called him “Tino” for days until I was corrected. A crazed Canadian who lives here when he isn’t flying 737’s for Air Canada filled me in.
“If the owner's name is Leroy, then why is the place called “Tino’s”?” I asked him.
“I’m not entirely sure” he replied. “The story I heard was that his chef, a very attractive young woman, became mysteriously pregnant. Leroy told her, “Whatever you name the child, I’ll rename the bar”.” 
I thought of asking Roy if that was true. But he’s usually dancing to Otis Redding or Wilson Pickett. Plus the glint in his eye tells me it’s doubtful I’d ever learn the truth.


p.s. Tacky homemade video at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTdVAcFlUyU