On Island Time: Kayaking the Caribbean

by Scott B. Williams

  When the sun finally rose out of waves dead ahead, I soon forgot my discomfort as I sat on deck under its warm influence and stared at the water beneath our hull. It was the deepest shade of blue imaginable. I had never seen water like that before – so transparent that you could see perhaps a hundred feet down into it to where the light faded into the abysmal blackness of oceanic depths.

  We spotted land by noon – a group of isolated rocks on the edge of the Great Bahama Bank called Riding Rocks. Deep water abruptly ends at the edge of this bank, which is a vast area of hundreds of square miles of shallows only 10-30 feet deep. The transition was dramatic. One moment we were sailing over indigo blue ocean, and the next we crossed a clearly discernable line into turquoise and green waters beneath which a rippled sand bottom appeared close enough to reach down and touch. Just inside this line of shallows we passed a shark that was easily as long as my kayak, and by far the biggest shark I’d ever seen.

  Riding Rocks was not an official port of entry for the Bahamas, and we were supposed to sail north to clear customs at Cat Cay, but we anchored there anyway and sailed to Cat Cay the following morning. Whisper’s engine failed just as we approached the dock, making it impossible to slow down by shifting into reverse, and we drifted into a docked vessel named the Ben Vassey. Her crew was on deck in time to fend us off with boat poles, so no serious damage was done to either yacht, and we managed to get Whisper secured to the customs dock aft of the Ben Vassey. Sylvia and the boys would have to stay on board, while Ben and I, each masters of our own vessels, took our paperwork and headed for the customs and immigration office.

  The first Bahamians I saw were customs agents across the dock from where we tied up. One officer was standing on the dock with a submachine gun trained on two men who were sitting nearby with their hands on top of their heads. Several other officers with crowbars and axes were tearing apart the interior of a large American motor yacht that obviously belonged to the two detainees under guard. I assumed they were looking for cocaine or marijuana. These islands were rampant with drug smugglers trying to get their illicit cargo into the United States.

  Ben and I waited two hours to see the immigration officer, resting in the shade of a grove of tall coconut palms that surrounded the building. As I waited I worried that I would not be admitted to the country since I did not have a boat big enough to sleep on. I had heard conflicting reports about the legality of camping here. Ben told me to simply avoid the subject if possible when talking to immigration. When at last it was my turn to go inside, the Bahamian officer did not seem concerned about my accommodations. He did require the serial numbers of the two guns I had in my possession, so I went back to Whisper to write the information down and when I returned I paid a fee of $28.00 for a six-month cruising permit and a fishing license.

  “I hope you got good charts, mon.” The officer said as he handed me my permit and returned my passport. “De Bahamas a big country, you know. Lot de islands, dem far apart, an’ de sea, she get mean sometime. You got a long way to go to dem Caicos Islands.”

  I thanked him and left much relieved. I couldn’t believe how easy that had been. I had cleared into my first foreign country in my kayak, and had been granted six months – far more time than I needed to transit the 700-mile chain of the Bahamas. When Ben was finished we sailed Whisper out of the harbor to the south end of Cat Cay, where we anchored for the night. Ben tinkered with the engine and tried to decide whether to go back to Florida for repairs. Had they gone back, I would have disembarked then and there and left on the 70-mile crossing of the banks to continue my trip, but Ben decided to keep going and said they would drop me off on Eleuthera as originally planned.

  While in the Bimini area the next day, Ben and I donned masks, fins, and snorkels and went hunting with our spears in the clear waters under Whisper. Bahamian law prohibits the use of sophisticated spear guns, but the more primitive Hawaiian sling is allowed. All I had was a simple pole spear, which proved to be to slow to be effective in such clear water. Ben loaned me an extra sling and spear, which I quickly learned to use. The butt of the long steel shaft fits through the hollow handle of the sling, and into a fitting on the rubber bands, similar to a slingshot, which I had plenty of practice with growing up in Mississippi. Aiming is instinctive, as with a bow and arrow. The sling propels the heavy steel spear with enough force to impale a fish about five yards away, and even if it does not kill it quickly, the 6-foot shaft greatly impedes the fish’s ability to swim away.

  I got the first fish, one that we identified as a porgy with the aid of Ben’s guide to tropical fishes. We swam over the reef in ever-widening circles around Whisper, towing the dinghy to put the fish in and periodically diving to shoot at likely candidates for the fish fry we were planning. Ben soon shot a large amberjack and a queen triggerfish, and with dinner in the boat we headed back to Whisper.

  The following day and night, we made the 75-mile run east across the banks to Chub Cay, a resort in the Berry Islands group. It was an easy trip, cruising over calm, transparent shallows, leaving little for us to do while the autopilot took the helm. We entered the marina at Chub Cay to take on fuel and water, both of which were sold by the gallon, the water priced at 50 cents. Prices in the small food store were equally disturbing, easily double those back Florida for the same items. I bought a few extra supplies to cram into my kayak when I departed Whisper, and paid $5 at the telephone office for the privilege of making a collect call to my parents. I found a dive shop nearby and went in to inquire about buying a Hawaiian sling and spear, as my foray with Ben convinced me that I could feed myself for free in these islands with the right equipment. A young man with a British accent running the shop was shocked at my request.

  “Why no! We don’t sell anything with which to kill things,” he said with an air of practiced aloofness and self-righteous vegan superiority. “We only dive on the reef to observe the marine life.”

  “You don’t eat anything that was once alive then?” I grunted and walked out in disgust. I would have to find hunting weapons elsewhere. I went back to Whisper with my expensive groceries and soon we were underway again, heading a few miles north to find a quiet anchorage in the Berry Islands before heading to Eleuthera. We passed close by several islands and I was surprised by the topography. I had pictured the Bahamas flat, like the Florida Keys, but here were rocky cliffs and rolling hills – not exceptionally high – but rugged. Surf smashed into the stony coastline, and groves of Australian pines reminded me of pine-clad islands I had seen off the coast of Maine.

  We anchored near an uninhabited cay and the next day went ashore and explored. Ben and Sylvia had been sailing among these islands for years, yet had never tasted a green coconut. In Florida, I had met people who had coconuts hanging from the palms in their yards and didn’t even know what they were. I showed the Olsens how to open the green nuts and they were all impressed with the delicious sweet water inside. We completed our natural breakfast with other wild edibles, including the heart of a cabbage palm, and some prickly pear fruit. That afternoon we sailed farther north and anchored between Frozen and Alder Cays. Both were uninhabited, about a hundred yards apart, with a reef connecting them and creating a beautiful lagoon of multi-hued water bordered by sandy beaches. Beyond the shore were dense groves of coconut palms, completing the perfect picture of tropical tranquility – the image I had so often conjured in my South Seas dreams.

  I off-loaded my kayak to do some exploring of my own. Ben and Sylvia were in no particular hurry, and now that I was away from Florida, I wasn’t either. We stayed in the anchorage several days, and when I wasn’t making long forays among the other islands in my kayak, I went spearfishing with Ben and helped him load all the coconuts we could gather on board Whisper. Sylvia set up a chair on the beach and gave haircuts to Ben, Sky, and Grant, offering me one as well. I had not had a haircut since the previous spring, when I had begun serious preparations for this journey, and I saw no reason to have one now. I would cut my h
air and shave my beard when the trip was finished – maybe.

  Paddling around these islands was a delight. The kayak seemed to glide on a cushion of air as I cruised over reefs 30 feet below that looked close enough to jab with the paddle. It was a world apart from Florida, with no signs warning against trespassing, no oil-covered tourists, and no hotels or condominiums. There were no buzzing speedboats or personal watercraft and the only boat I saw was a large chartered sailing yacht loaded with guests, many of whom were trolling fishing lines as they sailed by. When one of the lines got hung up on some near-shore rocks, I freed it for them easily by paddling up to the reef and standing up in the cockpit, nearly capsizing in the process. This earned me a loud applause from the crew and guests, and the skipper tossed me an ice-cold Miller Lite for my effort. I drifted slowly, savoring every drop of the cold beer. Ben had plenty of beer on Whisper, but no refrigeration, and drinking hot Heiniken takes some getting used to.

  Much refreshed, I landed on the beach at Hoffman’s Cay and followed a steep trail to the top of the island where there were ruins from an abandoned 19th century farmhouse. There many such ruins in the Out Islands of the Bahamas, evidence of the hardships early settlers faced on these rocky, waterless islands. I searched for fruit trees, as I’d heard that many of the old farm sites still have orange groves and other imported plants, but I found none here. I pushed on along an overgrown path that seemed to lead nowhere, and then suddenly came upon a view that took my breath away. I had almost walked off the edge of a cliff into the biggest sinkhole I had ever seen. Before me was a circular hole in the center of the island that was at least 75-yards in diameter. Vertical and undercut walls dropped 20 feet to the surface of the black water that filled the hole. Though the water was dark, it was clear and looked bottomless. I sat on the edge and stared down in wonder for a few minutes before heading back to tell the Olsens about my discovery.

  When Ben heard this, he wanted to know if the water was right under the edge of the cliffs.

  “Yeah, why?” I asked.

  “Great! I can do some high dives.”

  “Maybe, but you better climb down and check it out first.”

  He was ecstatic when he saw the place, calling it a first-rate swim-hole. He stripped and walked naked to the edge of the abyss. Despite suggestions from Sylvia and I that he either jump first or climb down to check for unseen rocks, he dove head-first into the black water, popping to the surface about a minute and a half later to report that he had found no bottom. During the days I had been on Whisper, this 49-year-old farmer from Iowa had constantly amazed me with his swimming and diving ability. While spearfishing, he frequently would free-dive to depths of 50-60 feet, then effortlessly search cracks and crevices in the coral reef for lobster and grouper. Though I was an experienced SCUBA diver and had been down to 100 feet plenty of times with compressed air, I could not go beyond 25-feet on a free-dive, because of sinus blockages that made rapid equalization impossible.

  I followed Ben into the sinkhole – feet-first – and we swam around, checking it out. The water was salty, and obviously connected somehow to the ocean by means of underground passageways that were beyond our reach. Marks on the rocks around us indicated a tidal fluctuation. Ben climbed out of the hole again and again until he had satisfied himself with several more leaps and somersaults off the cliffs.

  After we returned to Whisper, we got our snorkeling gear and went spearfishing out on the reef beyond the anchorage. We found good hunting grounds in 25 feet of water and Ben quickly located a huge spiny lobster in a crevice. I followed him down to get it and snapped a photo as he returned to the surface with the writhing creature impaled upon his spear. This is going to be easy, I thought, but two more hours of hunting produced no more lobster. We swam farther out, facedown on the surface with the snorkels until the sand bottom was 100 feet beneath us, yet plainly visible in the clear water. Magnificent formations of coral reached up in places to within 50 feet of the surface. But though Ben swam down to peer into cracks and under rocks, he found nothing else to shoot.

  We returned to Whisper with the one lobster, and Ben gathered some whelks, a kind of marine snail, from the rocks in the shallows of the anchorage. He wanted escargot before the lobster, so Sylvia dropped them live into a pot of boiling water. When they were “done” after a few minutes, Ben used a toothpick to pull the them from their shells and dipped them in butter before swallowing them whole. I ate a few, though they looked disgusting and tasted and smelled like the rotten seaweed that filled their guts. The lobster was infinitely better, but didn’t go far among five hungry seafood lovers.

  After dinner Ben announced that we would sail straight from the Berry Islands to Royal Island, which is just west of the large island of Eleuthera. I studied his charts and decided that I would part with them there. We loaded my kayak onto the deck and left early in the morning for the 45-mile passage across the deep waters of the Northwest Providence Channel. It was a rough passage, with seas equal to those we had encountered in the Gulf Stream, convincing me of the need to wisely pick my route when kayaking these waters and to travel only when weather conditions were optimal. Despite the heavy seas, we made good speed on a beam reach and arrived in the harbor by late afternoon.

  The anchorage at Royal Island was the most crowded we had yet seen in the Bahamas, but the island itself is uninhabited. The attraction for boaters is the ruins of a splendid 19th century mansion that was once the center of a sheep ranch that occupied the island. We took the dinghy ashore and explored the crumbling rooms of the estate and its many outbuildings. The vegetation was lush – almost jungle-like, with many species of trees I did not know. They grew out of the buildings, their huge roots cracking the concrete and stone walls, which were covered in moss and bromeliads. We found orange trees loaded with fruit, but these oranges were unlike any I had ever tasted. They were sour, but refreshing once you got past the first shocking bite. Other trees bore strange fruit which Ben and I knocked down to examine, but were afraid to eat.

  On the way back to the dinghy, I took off my shirt and used it as a sack to carry at least a dozen of the sour oranges. I was determined to make use of every free food source available to stretch my limited funds as far as possible. Back on Whisper, I spent the rest of the evening packing and rearranging my gear in the kayak. The following morning I returned with the Olsens to Royal Island for more exploring, and then after having lunch and one last hot Heiniken with Ben, I said good-bye to the family I had lived with for 12 days and slipped back into the cockpit of my kayak to continue my solo voyage.

  Living out of the kayak in the mangroves

  Four: Island Paradise

  I should like to rise and go

  Where the golden apples grow;

  Where below another sky,

  Parrot islands anchored lie.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  I turned to wave one last time to Ben, Sylvia, Sky, and Grant as I paddled out of the natural harbor at Royal Island and headed east along the shore towards Eleuthera. I would miss the Olsen family, but I was ready to be alone and looking forward to the freedom of kayaking and living on the beach again. I was claustrophobic in the confines of Whisper’s cramped aft cabin, and eager to pitch my tent, having come to regard the nylon A-frame as home in the past months.

  I thought I might camp for one night on the other side of Royal Island, but I didn’t like the looks of the exposed shoreline there and decided against it after paddling around to check it out. On a rocky point at the end of the island, I saw several wild chickens. We had heard roosters crowing that morning from the anchorage. After two weeks of sailing with vegetarians, I craved fresh meat. It was a temptation to break out my .22 rifle and shoot a hen for dinner, but there were several boats in the nearby anchorage and I was afraid the shot might be heard and reported, so I refrained and paddled on. The customs official at Bimini who granted me my cruising permit and gun permit had made it clear that all the ammunition I had with me was to be acc
ounted for. Recreational shooting and hunting was forbidden. The diminutive cartridges for the .22 were so small, however, that quite a few loose rounds were scattered throughout my gear and clothing that were not included in the official inventory. When the time and place was right, I would put the rifle to use. I had heard that many of the islands had abundant populations of feral livestock such as chickens, goats, and pigs. These living remnants and abandoned stone houses and cisterns mark countless failed attempts to homestead the waterless rocky cays that characterize the Out Islands of the Bahamas.

  I made a short crossing to Russell Cay, which lies between Royal Island and the north end of Eleuthera, and on the windward side of the cay I found a deserted beach and made a rough and wet landing through heavy surf. The beach was covered with sand spurs that made walking without shoes painful. My first job was to clear out a large enough space to put my tent so their sharp spines would not puncture the floor. I cooked rice and added a can of tuna, then leaned against the trunk of the lone Australian pine on the beach and spread out my chart of the islands as I ate. I could hardly contain my enthusiasm to paddle the route I had marked off on paper, and to see what each tiny cay and island village was like in real life. With visions of adventure in my mind, I drifted off to the sound of crashing surf and was up at daybreak.

  That morning I cooked my first proper breakfast in 13 days – a stack of pancakes with maple syrup. This was the kind of fuel I needed to start a day of paddling. I had often felt starved during my time on board Whisper, especially in the mornings. A small bowl of fruit for breakfast may have worked for them, but after two and half months of paddling, often 20 miles or more in a day, I needed carbohydrates. I could eat as much and as often as I wanted. This lifestyle of paddling all day, making and breaking camp, snorkeling and swimming, and exploring ashore on foot took care of all the calories. I was fit when I’d begun, but now my endurance and tolerance to hardship was beyond anything I’d ever known.