This was my fifth trip to the Abacos. If you’ve followed my adventures (many of which can be found here), you know that most of my travels have been challenged by weather woes. Some of them are just plain bad weather, like the Abaco trip of 2002 during which it rained the entire time (Abaco 2002), or the other trips, which were bedeviled and chilled by cold fronts. Other times are more dramatic, like hunkering down in the BVI during Hurricane Georges in 1998 (BVI 1998) or spending days marooned in Dallas on our return from Belize due to a massive East Coast snowstorm (Belize 2003). They don’t call me Typhoon Tonya for nothing. Needless to say, with my experience, I viewed Hurricane Wilma as a harbinger of things to come.
Thankfully, I was wrong. The weather during our week was the stuff of tourism brochures. High temperatures each day around 80, with overnight lows in the 70s, with enough nighttime breeze to require us to sleep with blankets. During the day, the sun shone on us, and the wind propelled our boat at a smart clip, often reaching 8 or 9 knots. We listened to the weather reports on the Cruiser’s Net (8:15 a.m. on VHF 68) daily, and got nothing but good news. Even the cold front passing through on Thursday was a dry one, freshening wimpy morning breezes into a firm 20 knots by lunchtime. The water temperature was perfect for refreshing swims, not so cold that you dread jumping in, but no so warm that it feels like a bath.
Of course, it truly is the luck of the draw. While many people claim November is the best time of year to visit Abaco, weatherwise, it doesn’t always work out. In 2001, we had planned to sail the first week of November. Instead, a hurricane (Michelle) was planning arrival for the same day as us, and we diverted to the BVI, re-booking Abaco for the following year (which was the rain-drenched trip noted above). This time, luck was with us.
The Livelier Pleasures of Abaco
For me, the measure of a good cruising destination is variety. While I crave solitude and seclusion at times, days on end would be tedious. A little low-key action is welcome to break it up. The British Virgin Islands used to have the ideal mix, but the incursion of cruise ships – sometimes several a day – has changed the chemistry; now even the secluded spots are less so, as those seeking to escape the hordes are flocking to the once-quiet spots, crowding them. The Abacos still have it right, though it helped that we arrived just as places were opening up for the season.
Upon arriving on Saturday at MHH, we met Sunshine and Mike and Margaret at the Moorings marina at the Conch Inn. While our late afternoon arrival would have left us in port as bareboaters (especially since it was now getting dark at 5:30), Mike’s knowledge of the waters allowed us to head straight for where the Abaco-style action was. With absolutely no ado, we dropped bags in our bunks, exchanged hugs and introductions, and by 5 p.m. were motoring towards Fisher’s Bay on Great Guana Cay, the anchorage which is just north of Settlement Harbour. I made a quick reconnoiter of the galley and provisions, and served up drinks in time for us to watch the sunset.
We had a too-leisurely dinner at the Blue Water Grill, with easy-flowing conversation punctuated with laughter, the way it would go all week. We conched out shortly after returning to the boat. But we were just storing up energy for the main event – a first for all of us – Nipper’s Pig Roast on Sunday.
Sunday was our first morning on the boat and reminded me of some of things I love about Abaco. I was one of the first awake, at first light, and I sat in the cockpit taking stock. The only sounds were the not-so-distant roar of the ocean just over the narrow spit of land off which we were anchored, and the closer slap of wavelets against our hull. The air was soft and warm, and the sun was slowly brightening the sky. We were slow to move, but there was no hurry anyway. Rick and I circumnavigated Delia’s Cay in an inflatable kayak, unable to gauge depth since the bottom is as clearly visible in feet of water as it was in inches. Finally, we were ready to go ashore.
One of Wilma’s casualties was our dinghy. Between the storm’s ravages and the Gulf Stream crossing, its carburetor had been fouled (perhaps by dirty fuel, perhaps by wind-driven debris). No matter: we had strong men to paddle us ashore, though we chose to land closer to the boat than to our destination – at the Dive Guana dock rather than the Guana Beach Resort dock. That meant a longer walk to Nipper’s, but we cut through Dolphin Beach Resort to reach the beach and walked over along the shore.
Paddling ashore to Great Guana Cay, in time for the (in)famous Pig Roast at Nipper's.
What can be said about Guana’s oceanfront that hasn’t already been said more eloquently by others? The water runs the gamut of blues and greens, and the surf foams up onto a creamy sand beach. Here and there, rocks and ironshore punctuate the shore, and a few houses ride high on sea oat covered dunes. A bit further south, up a weathered staircase, Nipper’s presides in a profusion of color. When we arrived after 11 a.m., a lively but mellow crowd was starting to gather, so we claimed a picnic table (painted in turquoise, hot pink, orange, and blue) and bought our tokens for lunch. I limited myself to one frozen Nipper (a variation of the classic rum and fruit juice combinations throughout the islands), and then joined the others in drinking Kalik, the elixir of the Bahamas.
The pig roast was just about the best meal we ate all week, and definitely the best value (at $20 per person). And the atmosphere at Nipper’s (albeit early in the season) was lively and entertaining, with lots of people to talk to and scenery to take in, without being overcrowded. The location is perfection, and we ranged between jumping in the ocean and body-surfing, dipping in the two-level pool, and just hanging out at our table. I loved talking to people at Nipper’s without even exchanging names, and then running into them later – say at Miss Emily’s Blue Bee Bar on Green Turtle Cay – as if we were long-lost friends.
By late afternoon, we were back aboard Sunshine and enjoying a superlative sail back to Marsh Harbour, where we would see Margaret off to Toronto the next morning and have our dinghy motor tended to by Terrence. None of those tasks took very long, and by late morning we were on our way again – this time to another favored party spot, Pete’s Pub in Little Harbour.
Little Harbour is the Abaco equivalent (in many ways) of the BVI’s Bitter End. Here is the last truly sheltered anchorage of the Abacos, as the string of offshore cays tails off at Lynyard Cay and any further sailing south is in open ocean down to Eleuthera’s northern satellites – Harbour Island, Spanish Wells and Royal Island. And something about that land’s end location inspires the birth of a watering hole with real character. My past misadventures at Pete’s Pub are chronicled here: (Abaco 1999).
As a bookend to our trip, we also spent our last full day (Friday) at Nipper’s. I guess I looked like I had a good time, because the next morning everyone asked me “Are you OK?” And I was! Why would they think otherwise? Was it the shoe (always the shoe thing…) I lost while boarding the dinghy back to the boat? (Thank goodness it floated and was retrieved; I had only brought the one pair of Keen sandals with me on this trip and would have been limping home without it….).
We had arrived at Nipper’s on Friday in the early afternoon after crossing over from Green Turtle Cay via the Don’t Rock passage. After lunch aboard, we hit the beach and the bar
Sadly, my fuzzily remembered day at Pete’s Pub was not to be reprised on this trip, and I would hang on to both of my shoes this time. This early in the season, the pub was open only during the weekends, so we contented ourselves with a quick stroll through the empty pub and Pete’s gallery (which his daughter-in-law kindly opened for us) and collecting sea glass on the ocean beach.
Most of the rest of our Abaco bar visits were similarly low-key, including a stop at Miss Emily’s in New Plymouth, drinks at the Jolly Roger bar at the Bluff House on Green Turtle Cay, and ocean front libations at the Hopetown Harbour Lodge. Luckily, our crew was a happily self-contained group, and we were just as happy entertaining ourselves as we were in the company of others.
Quiet Little Harbour, in the waning light of a late season afternoon.
Thomas O'Foolery, Captain Mike, Skeeter and Lulu relax poolside at Nipper's, marking our last full day in the Abacos.
and the pool, whiling away a gorgeous part of the day. The surf was kicking, the water was warm, and the mood mellow. We returned to Sunshine for showers and sundowners, only to return to Nipper’s for dinner and more frozen Nippers (which, admittedly, were devolving into “frozen nipples” …). A perfect Friday.
Watercolors
About 10 years ago, one of my partners asked me to help him plan an island getaway for him and his wife, his first visit to the Caribbean. Carefully listening to their interests and wishes, I suggested they go to St. Croix, which they did. When he came back, he told me that he was amazed by the colors of the water. He’d believed, until then, that all the photos of those amazing crystalline blues of the Caribbean were doctored.
Yet, even if you believe the photos real, nothing prepares you for the reality of that color of water except, perhaps, having seen it before. And nowhere are those colors more vivid than in the Bahamas. They glow with life, bathing everything around them with their otherworldly hue. That special Abaco blue is most obvious and prevalent over the sand banks and bars which create hazards for unwary navigators in the Sea of Abaco.
The sandbar extending from the west side of Lubber’s Quarters Cay has that glassy, blue-green sheen. But that is only a waypoint enroute to my favorite Bahamian sandbar: the Tilloo Bank. The Tilloo Bank extends a mile or more from the west side of Tilloo Cay into the Sea of Abaco, with a white sand bottom and a depth of no more than 10 feet. The turquoise waters appear from a distance like a glowing smudge, lit from within; when you are over the bank, it shimmers like a aquamarine gem having orange inclusions in the form of giant starfish.
Silvery driftwood marks Tilloo's beach, while the guys hoist a Kalik or two.
Although Mike had warned that the hurricanes of past years had decimated Tilloo Bank, I was hot to make a return visit. So, on Tuesday, after overnighting in Little Harbour, we headed north to Tilloo Cay and tucked Sunshine into a 4 foot deep spot near the northwestern corner of the Bank. Soon, armed with snorkel gear and mesh bags, we were in the water. While the Bank itself is a swimmer’s dream – a giant swimming pool -- it’s the edges that hide the booty: lying in the grassy fringes of the sand bank are sand dollars and sea biscuits galore.
The pickings weren’t as rich as in the past, so perhaps the storms had indeed taken their toll. And my technique leaves a bit to be desired, especially in deeper water. I take a deep breath and dive down seeking my prize, but invariably, I’m either too excited or running short of breath and I end up crushing my intended target with my overzealous hand. Nevertheless, enough pristine specimens made it out of the water to have made it worth our while.
Another one of the Abacos’ remarkable sandbanks is the Don’t Rock passage. To those who aren’t familiar with this area, the cays offshore of Great Abaco run roughly north to south, creating a protected, if somewhat shallow, cruising ground. At a point just north of Great Guana Cay, opposite Treasure Cay on the “mainland,” the Sea of Abaco becomes extremely shallow, an area of shifting sands which most boats cannot navigate because they will hit bottom. Boats with deeper draft wishing to head north to Green Turtle Cay and beyond must exit the Sea of Abaco and brave the infamous Whale Cay Channel, noted for its “rage” sea conditions – the same conditions which helped spell the demise of cruise ship activity in the cays.
The glowing blue-green waters of the Don't Rock Passage provide a cover for the treacherous bottom conditions.
Rick and I had traversed The Whale on past trips, but a shallow draft boat, like [i]Sunshine[/i], captained by someone having local knowledge, can take the interior passage referred to by its most notable feature, a rock known as Don’t Rock. Sailing north across the Don’t Rock on Wednesday was like flying in a haze of blue – you’re floating, hovering on a seemingly boundless sea of that famous blue of clear water over sand, while at the same time being borne by the wind. It’s a sublime experience. Our return trip over the Don’t Rock on Friday was only slightly more prosaic, made challenging by the fact that we were traversing at dead low tide, with a concern that the troughs of waves would unceremoniously deposit us on the sandy bottom. A lack of wind made it slow going, but the promised
dry cold front soon picked up the wind and we were on our way.
One thing that becomes evident in the Abacos is that I simply don’t know enough words for “blue.” How many times can I say azure, turquoise, aquamarine, blue topaz, cerulean, sapphire, or lapis? To those who have visited here, “Abaco blue” is descriptive enough. To those who haven’t, all I can say is that, while the pictures don’t lie, they only hint at the splendor of the waters.
