The Lovely Bahamas

      Imagine a place where people enjoy strangers. I knew nothing about the Bahamas when I arranged to crew on a multi-hull sailboat. Light bouncing off a turquoise sea under a cobalt sky, towering white clouds and a pristine beach on the horizon swelled my heart, although it wasn’t until I stepped off the boat that the real magic began. 

       The first taste of Bahamian acceptance came from customs officials on a remote island where we checked into the country. We were slammed on the crossing from Florida, exhausted and bruised by an unexpected storm. Three strangers clinging to hope in the dark scanning the horizon for cruise ships. The captain placed an add online, myself and a young woman from Poland who had never sailed before answered. Landfall after a hellish night at sea made us giddy. Salty and unkempt we marched down an empty, sweltering blacktop road to the customs office to fill out entry forms, our flip flops stuck to melting tar.    

    Customs and immigration had separated desks. The officers also wanted to know what we did for a living, how we arrived in the Bahamas and who we were to each other. Three unrelated people who met through an internet ad, got on a boat the next day and sailed straight into violet weather didn't appear reliable, honest or sane. We were assumed to be husband and wife with a teenage daughter, but our passports told another story.  Offering that we were friends raised eyebrows at both desks. Our assumed daughter, a girl in her early 20’s, did not look up from her phone. She answered questions tersely, annoyed that her texting was interrupted. Her butt and cleavage hugging tiny shorts and tank top defined all her curvy features. The men stared at her as the captain filled out pages of questions about the boat and our intentions in the country. 

      What an odd group. I wondered what they could possibly be thinking. I’m not a small woman, the captain was a thin, balding man half my size and the girl resembled neither of us. We looked like kidnappers in the sex trade industry. The captain  left most of the questions on the form blank. At that point U.S. officials would have marched us into individual rooms to extract our real stories, criminal activity assumed.

     The Bahamas have their sha­­re of money laundering and drug running. The officers asked what we planned to do, then glanced at each other. One man took our passports into a back room to make phone calls with an old school rotary phone. It took awhile. I watched him through the open door. He looked concerned. The other well-pressed man in uniform stayed at his desk with our captain’s incomplete form on his desk, a large hand weighing it down. I had been instructed by the captain before hand not to say anything, to let him do the talking. That made me wonder what he was hiding. Blindly trusting strangers isn’t always smart, but I do it anyway because sometimes things work out just fine.

      

     When the officer asked a question and the captain held his hand to his ear as if he couldn’t understand. It turned out his hearing aid didn’t pick up soft-spoken voices, but I didn’t know that at the time. He looked cagey. Our non-daughter in dark sunglasses kept her phone in front of her face and turned her back to everyone. The captain made a disparaging remark about the length of the forms. He crossed his arms and smoldered. The other official returned. He sat down and put his hand on top of our pile of passports. That left me face to face with two big guys, our fate under their palms, and two people I barely knew rudely ignoring them. For me that's a recipe for becoming the chattiest person in any room. The silence made my tongue ache.

      A large hand-painted relief map of the island showed our location. I asked where to buy carburetor cleaner, casually mentioning that the engine on the boat had been sputtering. I did not disclose that during the storm the engine had sucked in seawater and died with spark arresting finality. I assumed they might not want people in their country who may need to be rescued in the near future. Fixing the problem required a spare spark plug and the tool to change it. We had neither, but finding a mechanic seemed prudent even if I was supposed to keep quiet. 

     Both men smiled. With surprising joviality they told us all about the only mechanic on the island. They calculated how many minutes it would take to walk to town. I realized we had landed somewhere quite different. Our passports were stamped, and the forms shoved in a pile on the side of the desk, while wishing us good luck. Their concern surprised me, as well as how quickly they switched gears from questioning to helping us. I assumed our passports checked out and luckily bad manners on our side had not ruffled Bahamian feathers.   

     An injured knee cut my sailing trip short. I left the boat after 3 weeks and made my way to Nassau. Every friendly exchange with Bahamians convinced me to stay longer. I found a room in an old hotel overlooking Junkanoo Beach. Wildly entertaining is a place where people go to see and be seen. Cruise ship patrons showed up in droves, then trundled back to their respective staterooms satiated and sunburned. 

     After the daily tourist exodus Bahamians reclaimed their beach. The men’s volley ball team practiced, swim meets ensued and kids flipped off the wharf over the “no diving” sign with unrestrained joy. Mothers and fathers floated with their babies in the gentle surf. Later, couples walking hand in hand disappeared into dark shadows. The daily rhythm of the beach repeated beginning each morning with the migration of tourists. They hunkered under umbrellas sipping beer, bellied up to open beach bars to pound shots, lined up for Zumba, rented beach chairs and generally let it all hang out. Then the toys and furniture were put away and the beach returned to the residents.

     There did not seem to be any animosity over this arrangement. Bahamians made money midday when the blazing beach was least hospitable, then enjoyed the cooling breeze of late afternoon free of intruders. A few expats and people like me who had not arrived on cruise ships wandered around or swam alone unnoticed.

       At The Daily Grind Internet Café across from the beach good food was served with a smile. Teddy (the owner) and his employees greeted guests with genuine big-hearted warmth. I enjoyed conversations at the coffee shop. A former school teacher now cab driver, the maintenance man, people who worked the beach scene and of course the owner who is also an artist. 

    I rarely walk the same way twice and never remember what pocket I shove things in. Time in the Bahamas altered my loner habits. The Daily Grind staff made me welcome as a regular, a first for someone who moves around often enough to be taken for a fugitive.

     On the street both men and women greeted passersby with, “Hello beautiful”. Lost downtown I pulled an abrupt about face and crashed into a woman on the sidewalk. She accepted my apology with one of those big Bahamian smiles and said, “No problem hon, we’re used to tourists, enjoy your day.” Exceptional kindness simply rocked my world.

     I asked if I could I could photograph the people I met, to remember the joy a smile brings. Some people smile with their whole heart. 

  

 

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