Saturday, June 5, 2010

The Bahamian Hillbillies

We’re anchored in Salt Pond, host of the annual Long Island Regatta. It’s Day Two of the races. There was a weather delay. More on that later.
The settlement is mainly Caucasian, which is highly unusual for the Bahamas. The guide books boast of the friendliness of the Long Islanders. That may or may not be so. Last night, we went ashore for beers and conch. Wading through the carnival atmosphere, I had a different impression; Appalachia. Everyone sorta looked the same. Kids resembling Pugsley Addams ran around whacking each other with plastic swords, exhibiting an endearing familial spirit as they tossed firecrackers at one another. From what I gathered, the entire populace shares the same three surnames; Cartwright, Harding and Knowles. And like the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s, they feud; hence the regatta. Instead of screeching around foggy mountain roads, these folks use boats. No regard is given for vessels peacefully anchored in the harbor. Beers in hand, they zoom past trailing five foot wakes with empty bottles in them. Perhaps they’d wave if their hands weren’t full.
Yesterday’s race day dawned still and humid. Not even a wisp of a wind greeted the regatta crews. They ran the first leg anyway in the stagnant air. The boats lumbered like giant turtles towards the waiting crowds of spectator boats that were all moving about in diverse directions searching for the optimum view. When the race boats arrived it looked exactly like the chaotic scene in “Jaws” where everyone in town is heading out to sea to look for the shark. A complete and utter clusterfuck.
Day Two’s dawn was a repeat performance. Languishing in my clammy cabin, I relinquished further rest and put on some coffee. A rumbling noise up on the bow caught my ear. The anchor chain was inexplicably playing itself out. I wrapped the chain around the Sampson post (a thick steel rod bolted to the deck) and went back to the coffee. That’s when all hell broke loose. Gale force winds hit us out of nowhere. We were spun around and confronted by a wall of dark grey clouds barreling towards us. When it hit, the sea rose from a dead calm to six foot swells that drove us towards the perilously close coral rock coastline. To stay out of the race course, we had to move uncomfortably near to shore the day before. To compensate for the shallower depth, we had shortened the anchor line. Now the steep angle of the chain was bouncing us around like an over-inflated basketball. Enormous pressure was forced on the post. It started to give way. We had no choice. We let another 40 feet of chain shoot out of the hold. We hoped the angle would lessen the pressure and the post would hold, assuming we didn’t run aground first.
Off to our left, a seventy- foot fishing trawler had spun 180 degrees. It snagged the line of a fishing boat half its size, pulling it towards the trawler. They collided. Then the line snapped. Adrift, the smaller boat shot between the scores of see-sawing vessel buffeted by the winds. A minute later, it was speared on the sharp coral shore.
To our right, a sports fishing boat was in a similar predicament. Dragging anchor, it rushed towards the rocks. We watched helplessly when its dinghy hit the coral. Suddenly three figures dashed out of the cockpit. They got the engine started and pointed seaward with less than feet feet to spare. 
Next to us was a large pleasure cruiser with a racing boat tied along side. We were disturbingly close. Twelve hours earlier, two catamarans had been sandwiched in between us. Fortunately both had moved or we all would have been toast.
The storm shrieked for a full hour. I stood outside in a rain slicker eyeing the post in the pelting rain. It held. The wind just as suddenly died down and a steady drizzle ensued. An hour later, all was calm and clear. People emerged, missing masts were retrieved from the shore and the fishing trawler was pulled off the rocks and anchored. 
The overloaded spectator boats appeared throwing huge wakes and tossing bottles. Then a gun sounded and Race Day Two commenced. It was as if nothing had happened.


p.s. My favorite spectator craft was a skiff with an immense, oversized outboard motor. I wish I had taken a picture. The driver cruised the harbor gunning the engine. That caused the nose to point straight up. He never flipped it over, but he came close. Proudly painted on the side was one word, “Stupid”.

2 comments:

Post Comments Here: