In the annals of exploration, there are many tales of extraordinarily brave men. Stories are often told of heroes like Capt. James Cook, Vasco da Gama, Gilligan - adventurers who were not afraid to take to the restless sea in frail ships. These were heroes who calmly tossed their fate (and sometimes their lunch) upon the unforgiving waves in order to quench man's never-ending thirst for knowledge and to advance the frontiers of discovery. This is not quite one of those stories.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: My new command is a fine, seaworthy vessel that has been aptly christened Seahorse. The 35-foot, twin-engine trawler is a capacious beast with three decks: two staterooms and a head below, a large salon and galley on the main deck and a flying bridge the size of a dance floor with a helm station above. Joined by a stalwart crew (my old fishing buddy, Jim), we prepare to sail the Abacos, haunt of pirates and partyers, the Bahamas' boating paradise.
Great Abaco, a 160-mile-long dogleg of pine forests and marshes, is the Bahamas' second-largest island after Andros. It serves as the mainland to a bulwark of barrier reefs and islands (locally called cays, using the British pronunciation keys) that lie on the northeastern edge of the country. Between Great Abaco and its cays that front the oft-wild North Atlantic lies one of the largest sheltered bodies of water in the Caribbean. Bahamians call this warm, clear, shallow pool the Sea of Abaco.
Many of the Abaco cays are uninhabited with great stretches of deserted beach and pristine coral reefs. The chain of islands has little in the way of tourist development compared to New Provid-ence or Grand Bahama, but its hotels, restaurants and beach bars are among the nicest in the Bahamas' out islands. Visitors fly or cruise to the Abacos for the fishing, diving, snorkeling, charming historic towns, friendly people and the beaches that have been rated among the very best in the world. Most of the cays are within short ferry rides of Great Abaco and each other, convenient for island-hopping day trips and even splitting vacations between islands. This same proximity, along with the Sea of Abaco acting as a crystal-blue highway between islands with excellent harbors, makes the Abacos the Bahamas' favorite cruising area and one of the best in the entire Caribbean.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: Our provisioning is complete. We've taken aboard 300 gallons diesel fuel, 200 gallons fresh water, one case Kalik beer, one bottle rum, one bottle vodka and one dozen limes. Though we expect to fish and dive - allowing the bounty of the sea to feed us - we also carry emergency fare including: potato chips, peanuts, bologna, salsa, hot sauce and a 20-pack of hot dogs. By Neptune's grace, we sail at dawn.
Our Seahorse was stabled at the Abaco Beach Resort and Marina in Marsh Harbour, a beautiful facility outfitted with brand-spanking-new docks, courtesy of 1999's Hurricane Floyd. During our trip, almost every resort in the Abacos was finishing or had recently finished new construction brought on by Floyd's powerful punch. It is a testament to the confidence and resilience of the people here that after the devastation caused by the hurricane's 200 mph gusts, all the resorts are back bigger and better than before.
We didn't sleep aboard that first night, but instead set up at Abaco Beach Resort. After a dinner of stir-fried lobster at the Angler's restaurant, we decided to have a quick, pre-cruise cocktail at the marina-side swim bar. Hours later, we were still there, embroiled in the Great Abaco Invitational Ring Toss Championship of the Universe with construction workers from Nassau. The winners were awarded rum drinks and, fortunately for us, so were the losers.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: Dawn ... plus five hours. Despite a slight rum-sluggishness among the captain and crew, we cast off in good spirits. Aided by several nautical charts, up-to-date cruising guides and the best in satellite navigation equipment, I steer for Elbow Cay. Of course, it helps that you can see the island's candy-striped lighthouse as soon as you leave the dock.
The Abacos traces its modern history back to the Revolutionary War. The islands were settled by Loyalists who, starting in 1783, fled the fledgling U.S. republic in order to remain British. Even today, much of the population can trace its ancestry back to a couple hundred of these pioneers and the slaves they brought with them. I found that, in the Abacos, there was certainly no surfeit of surnames.
The settlers came to farm but found the soil poor and switched to fishing. A treacherous offshore reef also provided a good living through wrecking - the salvaging and selling of cargo and parts from ships that fell afoul of the reefs and rocks. In 1863, the Brits began to build a lighthouse in Hope Town on Elbow Cay in order to keep ships from smashing into the reef. But the wreckers were not amused at the official effort to drown their cash cow and several midnight raids were launched in an attempt to destroy the lighthouse.
Today, it is one of the few manned lighthouses in the Bahamas and still uses its original brass winding mechanism. Visitors can climb up the 130-foot tower for a great view of the New England-style, pastel-painted settlement of Hope Town and its popular harbor.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: Graced with beautiful cruising weather, we decide to keep moving and find a good fishing spot to fill the larder. Jim, a sunglasses sales rep by trade, has the rods ready. After much lively discussion, we settle on simply grilling whatever we catch in lime and butter. There is surely nothing better than fresh-caught fish.
After a lunch of hot dogs and bologna sandwiches - the water looked fishy, but edible species proved elusive - we weighed anchor and motored northwest, crossing aquamarine shallows past low sandy islets with names like Parrot Cay, Johnny's Cay, Sandy Cay and Man-O-War Cay.
Man-O-War is the boatbuilding center of the Abacos; the sloops and schooners built there for generations were famed for their strength and durability. Just one couple, Mammy Nellie and Pappy Ben, settled the island in the 1820s. A census taken 150 years later showed that 230 of Man-O-War's 235 residents could trace their willowy family tree back to that single couple.
In this watery land overflowing with beer and Goombay Smashes, Man-O-War stands out because it is a totally dry island - and we're not talking dry as in lack of rainfall. The only thing its residents take more seriously than boatbuilding is their religion. We decided to keep moving.
We wanted to spend the night on Green Turtle Cay, heading as far up the chain as we could on our first day and then leisurely working our way back to Marsh Harbour. The charts showed a section of shallow water, a sandy shoal that cut like a fat speed bump across the Sea of Abaco from Treasure Cay to Whale Cay. It didn't look like there was enough water at low tide to get our big-diesel Clydesdale across, but I saw a cut between islands that would take us into the open ocean for a short loop to skirt the shallows and make it north. It was marked on the chart as the Whale Cay Passage.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: I'm steering for Whale Cay Passage. Ah, soon to be cruising the open ocean! Through the bridge's speakers, Jimmy Buffett sings about pirates looking at 40 and through the deck I can feel Seahorse's diesels thrumming faithfully. The wind seems to have picked up a bit - whipping through the Bimini top, it hums like an angry hive of killer bees - but the fresh sea breeze feels nice on our sunburned faces. Jim and I sit back and relax; all is right with the world.
It wasn't the first 12-foot wave that sent Jim soaring into the air. It was the second 12-footer, fast on the heels of the first, which lifted 200-plus pounds of screaming sunglasses salesman off his feet and threw him onto the dashboard, giving new insight into the term flying bridge.
Whale Cay Passage was aligned to the northeast, facing a hurricane that had missed the islands but sent its best wishes in the form of heavy swells. Most of the waves were moderate, six to eight feet, but a couple of sets were eye-level to the top deck. We did not dawdle in the passage.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: We have survived Whale Cay, although I must report that the complimentary fruit basket supplied by the Florida Yacht Charters took a nasty spill from a galley counter. I fear the bananas are bruised and the grapefruit may be a total loss.
We reached Green Turtle Cay just as the sun set, idling down the narrow channel into White Sound, mooring and then taxiing up the hill to the Bluff House Beach Hotel, which commands the highest ground and best island views. The staff was rather surprised to see us pulling in so late, having come up in this wind. The bartender laughed and pointed out a framed newspaper article that told the story of a 160-foot cargo ship that sank amid heavy swells in the Whale Cay Passage.
After a couple of drinks to help stop the world from rocking and a brief consideration of ordering steak or any other land-based meal, we sat down to a lobster dinner in the Bluff House's restaurant, then settled in for a night high and dry.
The next morning, we explored the island by golf cart. Most of Green Turtle's 450 residents live in New Plymouth. Tidy clapboard houses, picket fences and colorful gardens give the little town the look of 19th-century New England. Putting along on Bay Street, I spotted a tiny sign that read Model Sailing Ship Company. Down a short alley, we found the garage workshop/store/museum owned by Vertrum Lowe. His card read Master Model Builder. He said to call him Vert.
Descended from Loyalist settler stock, Vert's family made its living from the sea and ran the same kind of locally built sailing ships that now stand in miniature in his display case. Vert builds the intricate models with thick, weathered hands that would look more natural gripping a hawser at sea than they did threading tiny strays through pea-size pulleys. Shaking one of those hands and spending time with Vert in his workshop was a link to the Abacos of old to a hardy, sefl-sufficient people who thrived at the edge of the world.
Green Turtle's early residents also salvaged a living from unfortunate ships. And our choice for lunch, The Wrecking Tree, was built on the site where much of the loot was brought ashore before being shipped to Nassau. The Tree is also a bar, so the sailors of today can still get wrecked on Green Turtle. We settled for grouper sandwiches and, because it's also a bakery, a load of fresh pineapple tarts to take back to the boat.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: Narrowly avert a mutiny when I inform the crew that the only way south is to again take Whale Cay Passage. I search the cassettes for that song about Edmund Fitzgerald and something to fashion into a seatbelt for Jim. Fortunately, even though the wind has picked up, the swells are not as bad, though they are severe enough to again toss the fruit basket across the cabin. The grapes, I must report, are goners. On to Treasure Cay.
We stabled at the stallion on Treasure Cay Marina, checked into the resort and hit its poolside bar to toast another passage that did not garner a newspaper spread. Treasure Cay is not a true island, but a dollop of land dangling off Great Abaco. The expansive resort and residential settlement here straddles a strip of land with the marina on one side in protected water and three-and-a-half miles of gorgeous beach on the other.
It was at the bar at Treasure Cay that we started to hear about Cruisers's Net. Other boaters were surprised that we had not been tuning in to the daily, noncommercial broadcast transmitted via VHF radio. How did we know what was going on in the Abacos if we weren't listening to the Net? I didn't want to admit that we hadn't heard it because we never woke up in time to catch the 8:15 a.m. chatter. It was either yo ho ho, a bottle of rum and a late wake-up call or all hands on deck at oh-no hundred hours. We'd been happily adhering to a schedule fit for pirates of the Caribbean, not farmers. Nonetheless, the Cruiser's Net community sounded interesting and we vowed to rouse in time to catch it the next morning.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: Cruiser's Net reports that the wind is gusting to 30 knots, Whale Cay Passage is dangerously impassable, the Dow Jones is down 12 points, the ferries from Great Abaco are on schedule, the wahoo are biting and the biggest party in the islands today is at Nippers on Great Guana Cay.
When we arrived at Nippers, there were two European couples doing some continental form of dance that involved falling down quite a bit, a knot of new friends swaying and singing James Brown tunes, several men wearing bikini tops borrowed from female patrons and a guy drawing permanent-marker tattoos on a bartender's forearms and the inner thighs of newlyweds. Cruiser's Net was right: The party was indeed here.
Nippers is perched high on the sand dune that makes up the spine of Great Guana. The view of the Atlantic from the deck, taking in a five-mile-long, brilliantly white beach with a scattering of massive gray limestone formations, is inspiring -- even more inspiring when the ocean is frothing mad as it was when we were there, stirred up into what the locals call a ''rage sea.''
Everyone in the Abacos with access to a boat had come for Nippers' famous Sunday lunchtime pig roast where owner Johnny Roberts pit-barbecues up to 20 wild boar that are hunted in the forests of Great Abaco. Quite a few of us were still there after late-night snacks of grilled fish and peas 'n rice. After trying unsuccessfully to get Roberts to tell me the secret ingredients for his signature Frozen Nippers a Slurpee machine-brewed rum concoction that triggers rampant table-dancing we navigated back to the boat where we plugged in the shore power, cranked the AC and crashed in our cabins for a night on board.
CAPTAIN'S LOG: Cruiser's Net reports the wind is gusting to 40 knots, the Dow has lost 45 and that homeless hounds and kitties in the Abacos need all our help. We had planned to dive offshore on the barrier reef but high seas will keep us inside. Instead we plan to snorkel for lobsters in the calm waters behind the cays. We've scouted excellent spots and have only to decide whether to start the charcoals now or wait until the ''bugs'' are on board.
The Seahorse came equipped with a charcoal-fired barbecue in the stern cockpit. And it's there we cooked up more hot dogs. The snorkeling was excellent: clear water, healthy patch reef, loads of angelfish, parrotfish, pufferfish, moray eels and an encouraging number of young grouper. We even spotted a rare, golden spot moray hunting in a forest of turtle grass, but no lobster save for an undersize little squirt not much bigger than a jumbo shrimp. Lobster is an important fishery in the Abacos and apparently we'd arrived too late in the season for there to be many left inside the reef.
Back at the marina on Great Guana, the owners of the only other boat docked there, La Chaumiere, invited us aboard for a visit. John and Pam Roth were both lawyers in their previous lives before retiring to become what John called ''bums,'' seeing the world in their boat. La Chaumiere, which means thatched cottage (surely an intentional understatement for this massive, aluminum-hulled floating penthouse), was twice the size of Seahorse with plenty of rich teak decking, cruise-ship loungers and an ultra-cool dinghy on a davit.
But it was the inside of the yacht that really set off the dinghy envy. We of the Seahorse were pikers. Sure we had a small TV and VCR, but they had a wall-sized flat screen TV; we had a sloshing cooler of Kalik and nearly empty bottles of rum and vodka, but they had a complete bar and wine collection; we had cluttered the boat up with colorful fishing lures, they had an art collection with pieces wired to the walls to keep them in place; and where we had a mashed fruit basket, they had house plants and even potted trees. They really knew how to take this cruising thing to the next level.
As this was my first experience, I knew I had a lot to learn about the fine art of cruising and talked to the Roths for quite a while. It was gratifying to know that we had chosen our destination well. Even after they've been all over the world, they assured me they come back to the Abacos again and again because it is one of the best places on earth whether you're staying at one of the resorts, or bringing your own floating resort with you.
By the time Jim and I left their boat, all the restaurants on the island had already closed. We mounted the good ol' Seahorse and, for a change, we microwaved the hot dogs.
Posted online 02/01/01.
