On a hot midsummer day just after our arrival on Harbour Island, with the vaguest of breezes skulking across North Eleuthera Sound, two women - Brilanders both of them and carrying umbrellas - paused in their stroll along Bay Street to study the curious vessel moored at the end of Government Dock.
''Lively looking thing'', said one of the women. ''Painted all up and such.''
''Plenty big, too,'' said her companion.
Its hull festooned in a filigree of chartreuse and gold, a pattern befitting the blouse of a tiki bar waitress, the Bo Hengy, a 115-foot, diesel-driven catamaran with a top speed of 40 mph and room for 177 passengers, had just completed its morning run, the flagship of a new ferry line that hopes to put the Bahamas Out Islands within easy reach of the Nassau crowds. No more tiny, bouncy planes. No more slow-poke mail boats that take six hours to plod to Harbour Island. The Bo Hengy - with stereo-throbbing island tunes and attendants serving fruity drinks - could skim the 38-mile route in a bare 90 minutes.
The two women, fanning themselves in the blessed shade of their umbrellas, watched the ferry disgorge its load. One of them heaved a sigh. ''Thing I want to know is ... '' She stopped fanning herself and turned to her friend. ''Why do some folks have to go fast?''
The words hung in the sultry air as I watched the women walk away. I was already carving their purloined conversation into a fitting metaphor, one that would neatly frame the Harbour Island experience.
It is a worthy question, I envisioned myself punching out the words, and one that Harbour Island asks the world: Why do you have to go fast? Why?
From there I could explore the wonderful ability of tropical islands to deprogram the harried soul, to help us slow down and savor life at a leisurely pace, the entire piece becoming a meditation on the glories of lassitude, a tribute to torpor...
Other voices punctured my reverie.
''Whoa, cool,'' said my 16-year-old son. ''Golf carts.''
''Can we rent one?'' asked his 18-year-old brother.
''No, we're walking,'' said their mother, who was already trudging up Chapel Street in search of the beach.
''It's a tiny island,'' I cut off the boys before they could protest, and we set out after my wife.
Actually, Harbour Island isn't tiny. It's downright dinky - just three miles long and a half-mile wide - and in planning our trip my wife and I hadn't seriously considered a golf cart. For one thing, it seemed just a tad too touristy. Besides, we like walking, and the best way to get to know a place is on foot. But contrary to widespread notions that the Bahamas are flatter than a Bally trainer's stomach, there are hills on Harbour Island. Not giant hills, mind you, but sizable bumps capable of wearing you down, particularly on a hot day and even more particularly if you are in the company of teenagers who are capable of wearing you down in even more exhaustive fashion.
''All the other hotels are on the ocean'', said the 18-year-old as we trekked across the island, eager for a glimpse of its fabled pink-sand beach.
In order to uphold my fatherly duty to completely vex and annoy my sons, I had encamped us at a hotel on the island's lee side, near what passes for the island's main intersection, although no such thing as a stoplight can be found on Harbour Island. From our hotel, The Landing, the beach was an unthinkable 10-minute walk. It led us past a succession of 150-year-old churches, cottages built by the 18th-century British Loyalists who first settled these parts, and royal poinciana trees in full bloom.
Such scenery might as well have been billboards, so oblivious were my sons to it.
''All the other hotels probably have swimming pools where something is actually going on,'' said the 16-year-old as we tried to keep pace with his mom. Spotting a beach access sign, she had throttled into high gear.
''Omigod,'' said my wife.
She had stopped at the crest of a path that wound through a jungle of wax myrtle and sea grapes. I stood by her side, our sons flanking us, looking out on the ocean. It doesn't matter how many times you visit the islands; nothing can prepare you for the water and its precious quality of blue. It demands reverence and instills a most profound sense of awe.
''Why did we come here for an entire week?'' asked the 16-year-old.
''What, exactly, is there to do?'' asked his brother.
My wife and I exchanged a glance and a sigh. Which one of us would ease their anxious young minds? The chore fell to me.
''Please shut the hell up,'' I explained.
Golf carts, as it turns out, are the absolute zenith of the fast-lane experience on Harbour Island, and come the second morning we had rented ours. This is not to give the impression that the boys had worn us down. No, truth is, we were hot. Walking here works up a mighty sweat, and, we discovered, the best way to cool off when one becomes too shriveled from soaking in the ocean is to crank up the golf cart and cruise, letting the breeze, borne by speeds approaching 12 miles per hour, provide a semblance of chill.
We poked around the streets of Dunmore Town, as I played professor, regurgitating everything I had read in guidebooks. One of the oldest settlements in these islands, Dunmore Town had once been the capital of the Bahamas. Back in the late 18th century, a small band of hardy Harbour Islanders invaded Nassau and, by guile and guts, drove off a much larger force of Spaniards, reclaiming New Providence Island for Mother England. So grateful was Queen Elizabeth that she granted the Harbour Islanders, who call themselves Brilanders, tracts on neighboring Eleuthera. To this day, a child born on the island can claim a chunk of Eleuthera land to farm.
''Which reminds me,'' said the 18-year-old. ''I'm getting hungry for some conch fritters.''
That was the other benefit of the golf cart. It was a great nosh-mobile. While there are several truly terrific sit-down restaurants on the island, the best way to eat is by sampling from the slew of take-away places. Conch fritters - six or seven for a dollar - became a daily staple. We'd grab a bag of them, then putter someplace else for fried grouper sandwiches or for yet another variation of peas 'n' rice. Then, to wash it all down, we were off to the corner where the Daiquiri Lady ran her stand, three or four blenders whirring perpetually as she poured out slushy, frozen concoctions based on themes of mango, peach and banana. They were virgin daiquiris, but for an extra buck the Daiquiri Lady would step inside the nearby bar and add a shot of rum.
And there was Queen Conch, a plywood stand on Bay Street where the Percentie family held court. It being summer and the conch being scarce, Queen Conch was open only on a when we have 'em basis. But on the days when Walter Percentie got lucky on the water, word seemed to telegraph around the island, and by mid-afternoon Brilanders were swarming in as Lavaughn Percentie and her daughter, Chanella, chopped and diced at their conch salad assembly line. Big bowls of it, marinated in sour orange and spiced with Lavaughn's own pepper sauce, went for US$5. Locals would cruise by in their golf carts - no, it wasn't just a tourist thing - thrusting bills in Lavaughn's direction.
''Fix me up two of 'em, Lavaughn, you hear, darlin'?'' they'd shout. ''I'll swing back for 'em directly.''
Yes, we ate very well on Harbour Island. Once, after a morning of fishing with guide Vincent Cleare, who showed us how to spot conch on the sandy flats and clean it for bait, we found ourselves with a bucketful of grouper and snapper fillets. One problem - we didn't have any place to cook them.
''Just take it to Angela's'', Vincent told us.
We had eaten at Angela's Starfish Restaurant a couple of times, enjoying humongous platters of cracked conch and fried fish that exceeded the capacity of most human appetites. Still, I was reluctant to ask the owner if I could just barge into her kitchen and take over a spot at the stove.
''You want to do what?'' asked Angela Johnson when I approached her.
''I want to cook this fish for our lunch'', I said. I'll pay you for it.
Angela looked me up and down.
''I'm not worried about the money,'' she said. ''What I want to know is ... exactly how you gonna cook it?''
''I thought I'd blacken it,'' I told her.
''Blacken it?'' she said. ''Why, you know, I've heard about people blackening fish, but that is something I have always wanted to see. You step right in here, now.''
And in short order the butter was sizzling in the skillet and the fish had been dredged in three kinds of pepper and plenty of salt, and when the first fillet hit the pan, smoke erupting in a Mount Saint Helen's proportion, Angela began having some real doubts about her judgment.
''You sure is blackening that fish,'' Angela snorted. ''You blackening it all to hell.''
But it came out good, real good. The boys ordered conch fritters. Angela served up big platters of peas 'n' rice. There was more blackened fish than everyone could eat, and it got passed all around.
Angela sampled some and pronounced it edible but said she would stick to deep-frying her fish, if it was all the same. I thanked her for her kindness, and she looked at me like I was crazy.
''What you be thanking me for?'' she said. ''I'm the one gets to live on this island and eat this good food. Just happy that I get to share it.''
To combat the wages of excess, we spent most afternoons paddling around in the ocean, and our favorite beach became the one at the end of Sandy Lane. It was near there, a Brilander had told me, that India Hicks lived. Great-granddaughter of Lord Mountbatten and a favorite subject of the British tabloids, Hicks, along with music producer/hotelier Chris Blackwell and Wayne Huzienga, owner of the Miami Dolphins and the Florida Panthers, ranked as royalty on the island.
You should keep your eyes out for her, the Brilander told. She fancies bathing topless.
Posted online 11/01/99.
