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Wednesday February 28
We will spend the day anchored in Great Harbor. Kim suggests several possible activities. She wants to visit the Soggy Dollar Bar, named for the soggy bills offered by sailors who swam ashore. Snorkeling is said to be good in White Bay. We could visit The Bubbly Pool on the other side of the island. We could rent a car and explore the island.
Snorkeling and the Soggy Dollar would be a natural fit, since both are in White Bay. Neither Ian nor Bob wants to snorkel, but Kim and I toss our snorkeling gear into the dinghy. Bob sets the boat and hand-held radios to the same frequency. Once we round the point separating Great Harbor and White Bay, we will be incommunicado, since the radios operate on a line-of-sight basis. Kim skippers the dinghy over the rougher swells of less protected water. I radio the Eucalyptus when we reach the point. I barely suppress laughter before declaring into the radio: "Eucalyptus Eucalyptus Eucalyptus, this is Dinghy Dinghy. Do you read?" I receive a scratchy reply, "Dinghy Dinghy Dinghy, this is Eucalyptus. We read you." Compared to serious radio intercourse, our parlance seems comical.
We snorkel over a nearby reef. Today's reef provides a more vivid spectacle than yesterday’s muted display. When we finish we stow our gear in the shade. It has grown hot. We climb a rocky pathway connecting one half of the beach with the other. Balanced on a steep scrubby hillside are small feral goats feasting on shrubs. I had not known there would be goats. We see two, a nanny goat with humongous teats and a Billy goat with a ponderous testicular sac. The animals are brown with glossy coats and small heads. They are not skittish, but neither are they sociable.
A Soggy Dollar
The Soggy Dollar Bar is bustling. On the beach in front, many skimpily clad tan young women flirt with men in Bermuda shorts. We claim seats at the bar. None of the mixed drinks appeals to me, so I order a shot of Cruzan. We also order a flying fish sandwich. The bartender asks for a name. Kim supplies hers. "Who da hell is Kim?" asks the bartender. Not understanding, I point to Kim.
Kim looks past me to the beach. She declares this to be the best beach view she's ever seen from a bar. I point out that the view would be even better if we were men. When our sandwich arrives the bartender repeats, "Who da hell is Kim?" When we ask what he means, he explains that he asks this of all customers named Kim. He knows a song about a woman whose husband moans “Kim!” as they couple. Later I search the web, but all I can find is this song:
| You I can't believe my ears, I just caan belive what I hear |
| All kinda names he calling me, He better ask somebody, |
| Tink he could tek me for a ride? Well Im putting he tings outside |
| An when he call begging on the phone? What me tell he? Call Tyrone |
We finish our sandwich, but before I can order another shot of Cruzan, Kim says she's ready to go. While waiting for her to use the lavatory, I notice a handsome suntanned man tapping away on a laptop computer. I remark "Tell me you're not getting wireless." But he is! He is a trader from Austria and can conduct his work anywhere. Given a choice, he does it here. He looks happy, and I tell him so. He chuckles in agreement.
We hike back over the dry, stony hill between the bar and our dinghy. We strain mightily to drag the dinghy back into the water. Thigh deep in water, I hold the dinghy while Kim climbs in. Kim skippers, providing a steady hand on the throttle. We try to radio from White Bay, but don’t get through. The waves grow choppier as we leave the Bay. Kim tries to minimize the splashing, but we get soaked. Already wet, I swim before boarding the Eucalyptus. The guys have been conferring over geeky topics. I would escape to a beach bar any day to avoid geek talk!
While we have been away, Bob has discovered a defect in the anchor motor. I ask whether I could have broken the motor, but he doesn’t think so. He asserts that we shouldn’t be able to break it.
The Bubbly Pool
Kim has read about an enticing natural attraction called the Bubbly Pool. I am especially charged to visit the Bubbly Pool. We motor ashore, where Bob queries a taxi driver about a trip to the pool. The driver has another run to make first, but will return for us in awhile. We discover a local delicacy in an unlit little grocery with rows of familiar canned goods. A glass cookie jar holds lumpy brown cookies we cannot identify. The shop is deserted, but a woman out front tends to another's hair. We ask whether we might buy some cookies. The woman assents, proudly describing how the confections are made. They contain molasses, coconut, and a host of other delicious ingredients. A single cookie is rich enough for two people.
Back on the beach road a car passes by, honking irritably at a group of tourists ambling down the center of the road. Noticing a bar hawking Cruzan rum, we conjecture about why the Eucalyptus came stocked with Pusser’s when Cruzan is a local product which is superior to its British counterpart. The taxi returns, ready to convey us to the Bubbly Pool. The fare will be $20 per person. I gulp with dismay. I hadn’t anticipated spending so much for this ride. I ask Kim to whether the Pool is truly worth the price. She assures me that it is. Despite lingering doubt I will not spoil the fun for three others, so I agree and we climb in.
Before we embark, the driver ties the rear door to the van’s frame. The entire vehicle seems rickety and fragile. The driver slowly navigates the beach road, and then zooms up into the hills, motor straining. I am glad to be going after all. I have yearned all week to follow an island road into the hills.
As we climb, the brilliant blue bay spreads out below us, dotted with reflective white yachts. I am confident that the driver will not wreck as he zips around tight corners and honks insistently at little goats in the road. He has probably driven these roads for years and traffic is sparse. However, as we begin an impossibly steep descent, I grow nervous about the reliability of the brakes. I don't believe that they will fail. But I wonder whether I would get out and walk back if I had young children.
Paved road ends suddenly and we bump and sway along a stony dirt road. We arrive safely and disembark at Diamond Cay, which presents a rather barren landscape. In the distance we can see the other branch of Foxy’s bar. Ahead of us a narrow path winds towards the Bubbly Pool. We walk beside a calm, shallow bay. Small breakers plunge in the distance. The beach path leads us through fallen trees into rocky terrain (see http://www.flickr.com/photos/peahayes/424411734/). The earth becomes dry and dusty. Although we are in the tropics the vegetation and topology remind me of walks in more arid places. Cacti flourish among flora that I have never seen in a desert (see http://www.flickr.com/photos/67126329@N00/428682396/).
Our hike ends at a small beach. An intimate little pool enclosed by massive boulders is fed through a long narrow crevice. Waves crash ferociously in the distance and race through the crevice to plunge gently into the pool. Sinking into the water is like falling into a tumbler of gin and tonic. The water that spills into the pool is sizzling and foamy. A mineral aroma permeates the air.
We laugh and cavort, gently bumping against one another (see http://www.flickr.com/photos/67126329@N00/428682252/). Instinctive fear of the mighty wave racing toward us quickly diminishes with each gentle whoosh of bubbles. I climb onto a ledge beneath the crevice. We wait for the cycle of waves to gather enough force to send water slamming across the boulders. Only when the big one races our way do I allow myself to be swirled across the pool towards my friends. Thousands of bubbles fizz and pop.
Someone suggests that we climb the boulders to see the source of the waves. I am the first to attack the steep slabs of multi-colored rock. Blues, purples, pinks, and grays of varying texture create a beautiful montage. In no time I am at the top and can see all (see http://www.flickr.com/photos/67126329@N00/428682163/). The ocean crashes with great force upon boulders along shore. Ian is not far behind me, and soon we are watching Kim and Bob begin their ascent.
Bob makes a comical, quizzical face, pointing his fingers this way and that in a request for navigational advice. I shrug, figuring that he will find his own way, just as I did. I look back a moment later to see him protectively shepherding Kim across the rocks. Eventually they join us at the top and we gaze in all directions. I am the first to scramble back down the boulders to the pool. I wear open-toed sandals, yet I move nimbly, never stumbling or scrapings my toes.
Our return hike ends at Foxy's Taboo Bar. Because the driver is scheduled to pick us up soon, I am reluctant to disappear into the bar. Bob does not expect the driver to be prompt, since we are on island time. Kim and Bob generously enter the bar to procure drinks while Ian and I stand guard. We watch two employees dump a giant tub of lobster shells into the harbor. I wonder what keeps them there, staring into the water long afterwards.
Tan healthy people amble back to their luxurious yacht. I suppose they are quite wealthy. I can't help but whisper "Shiny happy people" as a neatly dressed blonde strolls by. Soon we hear bland strains of watered-down Motown, pleasing only to the whitest of musical sensibilities. Our driver arrives nearly on time. I gladly hand over my $20.
Last Evening on the Water
Back on the Eucalyptus, Bob thrusts gin & tonics into our hands. Under the influence of the drink, Kim and Bob are in rare form. I find their back-and-forth patter endlessly hilarious. They have the timing of long-collaborating comedians. This is our last night on the Eucalyptus, and our vacation will be over soon. I wonder what I will do without them.
After a wonderful period of sheer giddiness, we share leftovers on deck in near darkness. We talk long after the meal is finished. I grow sleepy and begin to fade. On shore, Foxy's heats up. By the evening’s end the night is raucous with electric guitar and vocals. I regret that in lieu of local music we hear American pop tunes. The local economy seems to thrive on making Americans feel at home. Unfortunately, to vacation as we do is to be tourists, not travelers.
We are to set sail early the next day. The more we pack tonight, the less mad dash there will be tomorrow. I pack what I can, and resolve to turn out the light early. Instead, I burn the midnight oil with my friend Steinbeck.
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