[Flying Pig Log] Long Island to Jumentos and Ragged Island

[Lydia Fell]

Hog Cay, just North of Ragged Island

April 14, 2010

We are anchored off the SW corner of Hog Cay, and today we have decided to
stay aboard, do some cooking, cleaning and reading while the wind continues
to build for the first snotty weather we've had since we left George Town.
We are nearly at the bottom of the 90 mile chain of cays known as the
Jumentos, which conclude at the bottom with Ragged Island, the only
inhabited island in the chain. Truly, we are closer to Cuba than anywhere
else - a 65 mile hop if we were allowed, as Americans, to make the trip.
Sadly, Cuba hasn't opened up yet as we'd hoped with the new administration,
and we've heard varying stories from other cruisers ranging from it's
entirely doable (but don't spend any money), to threats of having boats
confiscated and fines levied of $10,000. We'll wait to visit when there are
no risks.

Backing up a few weeks, and continuing from my last log, we had a wonderful,
if slow, sail to Long Island, our first visit there. We were thrilled to
find old friends in the harbor from long ago and far away - Bill and
Christie on Verandah, Jay and Diana on Far Niente, Allen and Liz on
Kokopelli. And, as always, we made new friends - all wonderful, fun people
who were happy to share their recent experiences in the Jumentos, which was
our known next destination.

We rented a car with Glenn and Elsa, friends from George Town who had made
the trip over also, and toured the island. We've been to many Bahamian
islands, but Long Island is truly special. While it still has those rugged,
wild, Exuma characteristics (in contrast to the islands in Abaco, which are
doll-house exquisite and manicured to the last blade of grass), the houses
were all well cared for, the yards were tended and there was no sign of
poverty on this island. We combed a stunningly beautiful stretch of beach on
the SW corner of the island, and left, almost reluctantly, to see the famous
blue hole a little further up the island.

Unlike the only blue hole I've ever seen, which was in the middle of the
pine forest where the wild Abaco horses live, this was open on one side to
the ocean, and surrounded by cliffs on the other two-thirds. It was
spectacular, and while I took many pictures of the various levels of
turquoise as the water started shin deep, and then dropped off into the hole
(at 663 feet, the deepest in the world), I couldn't do it justice. Divers
come from all over the world to this blue hole to free-dive it, without
tanks, wearing one large dolphin-tailed flipper that both feet slide into.
The world record for free-diving there is over 300 feet - unimaginable to
me, preferring to snorkel on the top of the water only.

We went on to Clarence Town on the east side of the island, and let
ourselves in to the two churches built by Father Jerome, a man who morphed
during his lifetime from being an architect to an Anglican missionary, and
then converted to Catholicism. His style of architecture is unique, using
mortar and stone, with rounded roofs and a predominant lack of sharp angles,
all built to be hurricane proof. They are truly lovely, sacred buildings. 

Long Island, which is so-called because the island is 75 miles long, and
never more than 4 miles wide at any point, is reputed to be Columbus's first
landfall in the New World. He named it Fernandina in 1492 when it was
occupied predominantly by Arawak Indians. American Loyalists resettled the
island around 1790, and it is the most agriculturally productive Bahamian
island, raising stock, corn, peas, bananas and pineapples. The "pothole"
farming method used here was very interesting to me (Ag School, remember?)
where the locals blast fertile potholes out of the very rocky soil, or else
grow their crops in natural holes in the limestone. Fascinating; to look at
it, you'd wonder how anything grows at all on what looks to be an island of
moon rock.

We headed north, and visited the Stella Maris resort (another lovely
honeymoon location), the old Loyalist plantation ruins and the Columbus
Monument, the road to which rivaled even the most rugged four-wheeling
country in Rabun County. And of course, we hopped out of the car whenever we
found a beautiful beach along the way, to do the mandatory scan for
exceptional seashells or, if we were very lucky, sea beans.

We had a fabulous internet connection in Thompson Bay, kindness of a house
on a hill which had good, strong, and open wifi. It was sheer joy to be able
to catch up with the family, make some Skype calls to Harrison and mum, and,
with a very few Batelco hiccoughs, have a 24/7 connection. No more 5 am
mornings.

We did, however, spend a solid week, dawn 'till dusk, on boat chores while
we were there, which were long past due. Skip dove the bottom of the boat
with our Hookah rig, and while it wasn't the reef we'd expected, he had a
green pasture growing down there which was worthy of a combine harvester. It
took him three full days to scrub the bottom clean, during which he began to
expose our blue paint, indicating that the top four layers of black bottom
paint over that are now ablated. I spent that many days and more on cleaning
the stainless steel arch and railings around the boat, which haven't been
touched in over a year. It was no fun, and further, another thankless job.
Within a day of finishing, I could see small areas of rust returning.

Eventually, we found a stopping place, and started watching the weather for
our trip to the Jumento cays, first west, and then south of where we were.
While we waited for the perfect window, we did laundry at the local and
extremely cruiser-friendly Long Island Breeze (a
bar/restaurant/book-swap/It was, in fact, and eight and a half hours of glorious sailing later, we
dropped our anchor off Water Cay at the top of the chain, and tucked in to a
beautiful little cove with one other sailboat.

With such perfect weather and wind direction, rather than slowly work our
way down the cays, we decided to sail to the bottom of the chain, and work
our way up. So, the following day, we had another fast and fabulous sail
south, and dropped our anchor before sunset off Raccoon Cay, just over 8
miles from Ragged Island, the last island in the chain.

What we've experienced since then has been utter bliss; I simply can't find
the words to describe the beauty, the peace, the awe, the gratitude for
simply being here. To tell you that we're anchored off deserted islands, and
that we've managed to fill our days happily exploring them, doesn't describe
the pioneer excitement, the absolute thrill of being on these beautiful,
untouched and remote cays. It's as if we are the only people left in the
world, so much so that it was a momentary shock when we found recent
footprints in the sand. It's been the stuff of childhood fantasies -
castaways, perfect weather, sand like talcum powder, food to forage. I used
to daydream as a child about scenes just like this. If only someone had told
me way back then, that this would come true for me one day, it would have
made all my dark days, (and there were years of them), so much brighter.

We'd take off in the dinghy in the morning with our packed snacks and water,
and we'd explore the coves, the beaches, the rocky outcrops and reefs,
hunting for food and gathering treasure. We'd come across an area on several
of the beaches that were gathering spots for cruisers, with a camp fire
surrounded by conch shells, and flotsam from the beaches providing seating,
make-shift tables, and sometimes, creatively decorating the area. One such
spot had a giant wind-chime, with little glass vials clinking in the breeze.
Often, there would be a nearby path, marked with buoys or flip-flops in the
trees, marking the way over to the ocean side of the island, often through
rough, scrubby terrain which had been selectively hacked away to allow for a
scratch-free hike. On one beach, we came across a hilarious memorial for a
plastic babydoll, all made out of flotsam which had washed up on the beach.
A stout ship's dock line surrounded the baby-doll's "grave", and she had a
Nuk pacifier within reach, some very small, but not matching sandals on her
feet, a few toys to keep her company (one of which was made from a coconut
shell), and of course, a handful of heart beans at her feet.

While the fishing hasn't been what we'd hoped, we've enjoyed many nights of
conch which we've waded in knee-deep water to find. The treasures we find on
the ocean-side beaches are seemingly endless, with driftwood and shells that
I can't leave behind, and occasionally, something useful for the boat, like
a good piece of teak. However, searching for sea beans, in particular, has
become an addiction.

Sea Beans are to the cruiser as gold is to the land lubber. They're
practically our currency. They come in a few different varieties, from
shores ranging from Panama and the Amazon to Africa. The Heart Beans, which
we've found in such abundance that I can't believe that I'd only found one
in the previous twelve months before we came here, grow on the largest vine
in the world up the Amazon. The Hamburger Beans, which look just like a
hamburger in its bun, come from Africa, I believe, floating on the ocean
currents to land on these shores. Sea Purses, roughly similar to a Hamburger
bean, are a little more common, although I haven't seen any here at all. And
rarest of all, the coveted Mary Bean, a nearly black bean which has an
indentation on one side the shape of a crucifix. I have found only one of
those in my hours of beach-combing, but sadly, there's a fracture of the
shell on the back side of the bean.

The polishing of these beans render them exquisitely shiny, reminiscent of
highly polished wood, and suitable for jewelry making or, for instance, the
pull-chain knobs on ceiling fans. There are a million things a creative
person (of which I am not) could do with these beans, but for now, I've got
my time cut out for me, polishing them on a bench grinder with a buffing
wheel.

(I should add here the story of our bench grinder. Skip, who was a
garage-sale addict in his previous life, used to bring home all sorts of
"useful" items, all "bargains", and all relegated to the basement
immediately. I saw his "collection" as some left-over neediness, a trickling
down of habitual waste-not-want-not sentiment from the Depression era, and
for someone like me, always a minimalist at heart, it was particularly
irritating. As we started giving away and getting rid of the contents of his
basement in preparation to sell his house and whittle our possessions down
to what would fit on the boat, we got into a heated debate about his bench
grinder. I was adamant that not only would we never use such a tool, but
that there was no where to store it. He prevailed, and the bench grinder
came to the boat yard with the promise that he'd leave it there if we couldn't
justify the space it occupied. Well, not only did he use it nearly daily in
the yard, he wore it completely out, and bought another used one, which is
now on the boat with us. Besides using it frequently enough to warrant it's
storage space, it's absolutely fabulous for polishing sea beans without
accidentally removing too much of the bean shell, which I've done before
using a Dremel. So, I'm very glad, now, that he insisted we keep it.)

Two days ago, Skip and I took the very long (4 miles, perhaps) dinghy ride
into Ragged Island, skirting around markers that kept us out of water that's
literally dry at low tide, and entering the harbor through a mile long
channel, cut through the mangroves. The island is, indeed, ragged, with
broken little houses, wild goats and feral cats everywhere. But our
experience all day there was like nothing we've encountered before.

Ironically, despite the obvious slow decline of the island, (a population of
around 50 now, with only 8 children under 9th grade), it offers free
internet, so we headed for the local pavilion where the smiling, incredibly
friendly local guys assured us we could sit in the shade and make our laptop
connect to the rest of the world. We took turns checking our email, and
while Skip was responding to mail, I struck up a conversation with Derek,
who was working nearby. I asked if he could tell us where we could get some
lunch, and he immediately got on his cell phone to his cousin, Angie, who
could provide lunch, but explained that she was tied up with something else
for a while. Shortly afterwards, he disappeared, and came back with a
carry-out box of pork chops, rice and fried plantains, and suggested we
split the meal until he could find us someone to make us some lunch. He
wouldn't take payment for the meal, insisting that he was happy to provide.

Derek didn't seem to be in a rush to get back to work, and as I watched a
feral calico cat lying in the sun a safe distance from us, I asked him if he
knew that calico cats were invariably female, (or, as Derek would say, women
cats). At that, he took me to his house just down the road to show me his
new kittens, one of which was a calico, and none of which had their eyes
open yet.

Derek's house, like everyone else who lives on Ragged Island, was wide open,
doors and windows both, with a wonderful breeze coming in off the Atlantic,
which spread below. The living room was spartan, with a high ceiling, and
the walls were covered in graffiti, mostly of a religious nature, as if
perhaps Derek added a verse here, a picture there, whenever he got inspired.
There were two bedrooms, very small, which each had a bed. The kitchen had a
sink, and I guess there must have been a stove of some sort, but I can't say
I remember one. He lives alone, and I'm quite sure he doesn't own a vacuum,
or if he did, that it was high on his priority list. In other words, this
was camping, at best. And yet the man owned property, he estimated a million
dollars worth of it, all around him and down to the ocean; he had six
kitties, and a year old puppy, goats, chickens and Muscovy ducks. All pets.
All loved and cared for, as best as you can when the outside moves in. Of
course, there's no vet on the island, nothing as sophisticated as spaying
and neutering, let alone flea and tick medications. It simply is what it is,
and Derek is very happy with the way it is.

He told me that the island is dying. Children have to leave to go to school
elsewhere after 8th grade, either to another island where they have
relatives, or often their families move off to larger settlements. There are
no jobs; fishing is the main occupation. The mail boat comes from Nassau,
via several different settlements down the Exumas, and it takes 3 days to
get all the way down to Ragged Island. Once it arrives, it drops anchor off
the north point of the island, and the locals in their own fishing boats, go
out to meet the boat, unloading everything from food, water, gas and diesel,
to mail and passengers. All the cargo is then transported via these small
boats back through the mangrove canal to the harbor, where it's unloaded
into an area of covered bleachers, then sorted, and carried by golf cart up
the steep harbor hill to its destination. It's an unbelievable amount of
work, just to keep the residents supplied with the most basic needs.

However, there has begun the construction of a dock off the north end of the
island now, primarily for the Bahamian Defense boats to use as a base. It's
opened jobs for the locals who are either building the dock, or preparing to
build the tarmac road leading to it. Derek estimated that the entire
project, which is operating 24/7, will be finished in 8 months, and it's his
hope that this will not only make it possible to unload the mail boat
normally, at a wharf, but also that it will bring some tourists and more
cruisers into the island, particularly if they have a Customs and
Immigration check-in.

Angie, who doubles up at the Post Office when she isn't making lunches for
people, came to find us to tell us she could get us some lunch now. Even
though we'd already eaten the pork chops, we followed her to her house,
where she made us a lovely ham sandwich . (divine, actually, the first ham
sandwich since Christmas), and while we were eating it, we visited with her
and her friend, Vivienne, who showed us an amazing straw briefcase she was
making - literally a work of art. Both women talked to us more about the
island and it's needs for growth, but both also told us how blessed they
were to live there in the peace and tranquility of an island devoid of crime
or stress, and rich with the caring and closeness of a community that small.
Everyone looks after each other.

Vivienne invited me back to her house, just up the road, to see the other
handbags she's woven from straw. She told me that she was from Nassau, and
married a man from Ragged Island, which is when she moved there 30 years
ago. He has since passed away, and her children all in Nassau now, but she
loves the island. She showed me her peacocks which she keeps penned up in
her back yard. I asked if her she eats their eggs, and she said no, they
were all just pets.

As we headed off down the steep hill to our dinghy, Derek called us back, to
pick up a large slab of Angie's birthday cake that she wanted us to take
home.

We were so touched by the kindness of these people, who were genuinely
interested in getting to know us, and welcomed us to their homes and their
island as if we were royalty. There are so many more people we met that
day - wonderful, happy, genuine people; too many to cover here. But we are
determined to be here again for Valentine's Day 2011, when a lot of the
Ragged Island locals come over to the beach we're anchored near, and put on
a feast of ham, turkey and wild goat, while the cruisers bring side dishes
and salads. I understand that it's always a memorable occasion, and I
believe it. You simply can't find better people.

This log has grown to a length I normally try to avoid, so forgive me. I'll
make a break here, and finish up the end of this trip when we get back to
George Town in a couple of weeks from now.

In the meantime, take care, be happy and stay tuned.

--
Love, Lydia

S/V Flying Pig
Morgan 46 #2
"The only way to live is to have a dream green and growing in your life - anything else is just existing and is a waste of breath."
Ann Davison

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