A Tale Of Two Harbors

BLACKPOINT
Old time cruisers love this lone settlement on the northern end of Great Guana Cay.
“It’s the way the Bahamas used to be” they tout. “Totally authentic”. So we set course. As we rounded the point, I lifted my field glasses up with high hopes and great expectations: 
Dilapidated buildings squatted unadorned on barren rocky outcroppings with the incessant shrieking of seagulls warning us away. Most harbors post signs welcoming maritime visitors and Blackpoint is no exception. But theirs reads “Get to the point. Stick to the point.” What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Onshore, it’s even weirder. Locals slog past you on the dusty street in stony silence. Antiquated outboard engines, deflated basketballs and rusting pickup trucks lie strewn about where they were thoughtlessly abandoned. The one open restaurant is a concrete inferno inundated with flies. The host’s remedy is to place a glass of water on the table.
“It scares them.” the young and extremely bored waitperson announced. “They see their reflection and go away.”
She shuffled back to her roost. The flies remained. Perhaps seeking their fifteen minutes of fame. 
Bahamians love to paint their homes in bright primary colors. It’s an island tradition. Not here. Instead, they purchased street signs. Expensive ones. They conveniently ignored the fact that they only have 3 streets. They also sprung for a stop sign. It’s stuck on a cul-de-sac warning drivers not to continue past the road, into the bush and over a cliff. Except the post is bolted over the front. So it reads “S7)P”. 
I believe I know why these folks are despondent. The culprit is the wind. When it blows from the west, the protected anchorages disappear. Potential visitors then pass them by. Having an economy contingent on which way the wind blows could be quite depressing. All I know is that I was happy to get out of there.

LITTLE FARMERS CAY
A mere 10 miles south of Blackpoint lolls this 80 acre paradise. Population +60. The gaily painted houses nestle on a low green hillside overlooking a horseshoe shaped harbor. There, fishing boats rock gently in the soft off-shore breeze. We knew we were in for a treat when we arrived at the nearby “yacht club” for dinner.
“You don’t want to eat here”, Joyce, the proprietor proclaimed. “We’re having a celebration in town for the school children. There’s free food.” 
The kids had won an inter-island art competition. Their principal and teacher, Mr. Jagoo, was throwing them a party. We loaded up our plates w/succulent chicken, peas and rice, macaroni and cheese and johnny cakes. Ali’s Bar Shack was perched next door selling cheap cold beer. I purchased two. 

“Here” he said handing me two extra. “On the house.” 
In our first hour on the island we were stuffed and on our way to getting drunk. Cost; $6. We partied until Ali closed up shop. Only two islanders remained. Alex was passed out cold on the concrete slab in front of Ms. Tasha‘s place. Nick was vainly trying to roust him. Alex’s boat was his ride home. As we rose to leave, Ms. Tasha called out from inside.
“You’re coming to church tomorrow morning, aren’t you?” 
I readied an excuse. Before I could speak she added, 
“There’s a celebration for the pastor afterwards. All the ladies are cooking food.”
“We’ll be there.” I shouted, stepping over Alex. “What time?”
“11:00” she answered.
“A very reasonable hour for a service” I thought. I was going to tell her that, but she was busy chiding Nick to get Alex off of her porch.
The next morning, the service began with one of the vividly dressed church matrons taking the pulpit. She spoke of the pastor’s sins and weaknesses. And how someone would hopefully soon replace him.
I wondered what she would have said if this hadn't been "Pastor Appreciation Day?" Were these ladies carrying rocks under their bonnets? Had I stumbled into my first stoning?
After a few other formalities, a guest preacher took the pulpit. He spent the next ninety minutes haranguing the congregation for their attitude towards the pastor and chastising them for their inflammatory gossip. Upon conclusion, we feasted as if nothing had happened. I tried to get more information on what had just transpired. 
“It’s complicated” was the best I got. 
But no matter. We had a great time. All the folks from the previous evening were there, sans the agnostics. The pastor, who was pushing 80, didn’t seem to mind the whirlwind swirling around him. We saw him in front of Ali’s the next day playing dominoes looking quite pleased with himself. 
Alas, we’re in Georgetown now. Tied to a decaying dock looking out on ramshackle buildings. We’re waiting on fuel. They’ve been out for three weeks now. They’re not sure when more will arrive. “Maybe next week” they said.
I think of this and the dichotomy of the two islands. I finally conclude it’s like when you throw your anchor. First it pulls you one way. Then another. Eventually it finds it’s way. There you sit comfortably rocking, surrounded by surge tides and swirling torrents of water. Just like the pastor.