The last couple of years, Rick and I have spent our November vacation on Cat Island. Our June 2002 visit to the Abacos found the cays a little busier than I’d liked, with the summer bringing lots of sportfishermen over from Florida and taking away from some of the feeling of escapism. One of the amazing things about Abaco – its proximity to “civilization” – is also a potential curse. For that reason, we found ourselves going further “out” in the Out Islands. While we hadn’t forsaken the Abacos, it wasn’t clear when our next trip would be, either.
I still kept up with doings in Abaco, and soon read about the attempts to develop the Baker’s Bay area of Great Guana Cay. Aside from the environmental, social and economic issues raised by the project, the proposed development struck me personally. My idyllic memories of those north-end beaches were being smeared, much as Hurricane Katrina wiped away a part of my youth when it devastated my college town of New Orleans. As soon as I heard about what was happening at Baker’s Bay, I resolved to return to Abaco.
Our return was too late to see Baker’s Bay as it had once been. Seeing the cranes hovering over the north end of the cay was an insult. Mike told us we could anchor in Baker’s Bay notwithstanding the construction – he and Margaret had done it just before we arrived -- but it didn’t make much sense to me to do it. I certainly didn’t want to go ashore – assuming one could – to a scarred landscape.
While the magic that was Baker’s Bay may never be recovered, I am grateful that for beach lovers like me, all is not lost, either. There are plenty of untrammeled strands; some of them might pose enough logistical challenges that they may never see development.
On Wednesday, after crossing the Don’t Rock, we anchored in Black Sound, Green Turtle Cay, with the express purpose of exploring one of those beaches: Gillam Bay. It was a bit of a hike from our anchorage, and there is no real access to the beach from the road short of cutting through someone’s yard. But Mike is so connected in the Abacos that he probably knew all the homeowners on Gillam Bay anyway. Strictly speaking, Gillam Bay is not secluded because there are a number of homes lining its shore. However, we only ran into one couple on the beach. The beach marks a mile-long crescent along shallow blue water, lined with casuarinas, then bends around corners at either end (which we never reached) into more and more beach. On this day, the wind was blowing and the water was kicked up, so the sea was more opal than topaz. Facing easterly, the beach is also susceptible to the sort of junk that washes up from the ocean. Nevertheless, we enjoyed our afternoon here.
Though the surf may have been kicked up, Gillam Bay still manages to delight. But the pleasures of Gillam Bay were merely a prelude of new discoveries....
Thursday was the highlight of our week, and salved my grief for the lost-to-me Baker’s Bay. On Thursday, after making a run into New Plymouth to buy ice and bread, we motored north for an hour to Manjack Cay. I’d never visited here before, but I daresay it was worth the wait and will draw me back for future visits.
Sunrises over Black Sound and White Sound at Green Turtle Cay bookend the day spent at Manjack Cay.
On approach, Manjack’s beach doesn’t look much better or different from other Bahamian beaches. While there is a pretty white strand of sand bordered with feathery pines, there seems to be a lot of grass off the beach; as well, there is a dock, which takes away from the promise of escape. But we were not content to take things at face value, so we got in the dinghy and rounded the west end of the beach. There, we found our reward.
That morning, we found the western tip of Manjack Cay, at low tide, to be a broad swath of flour-like sand which extends a good distance into the water. A long, narrow ironshore islet extends
northward off the tip of Manjack, and there is a sandy-bottomed creek separating the beach and the islet. To the east of the islet curves a wide, crescent bay edged with more white sand. The bottom is sandy is spots, and grassy in others, with a large area of sandy bottom at the
northeastern end of the bay, ending in a long stretch of ocean slapping against ironshore. The beach is littered with sea biscuits for the taking, as well as sea urchins galore – both dried out and still-spiny.
The leeward side of Manjack Cay (above, left) offers endless opportunity for exploration. Meanwhile, the windward side has a little more sea-borne trash than we might like, but Skeeter (above) made the best of it by building himself a throne. Finally, the current and immediate-past Commodores of the Chesapeake Bay Sabre Association couldn't resist showing our club's colors (and we swear we were thinking about the rest of the club members, stuck at home...)
It was me, Rick and Harriet on the Manjack beach in the morning, as Skip had had a sleepless night and wanted to nap. But after lunch, we insisted he come with us. With the tide having risen, we were able to take the dinghy through the creek and across the bay, landing it on the
wide sandy beach at the northeastern corner of the bay. This time, Rick and I had thought to bring shoes, so we braved the ironshore and walked towards the ocean. Eventually, we reached an empty ocean beach. While Rick looked for a likely snorkeling spot (he didn’t find one), I body surfed. Soon, Skip and Harriet arrived, and while the girls played in the water, Skip gathered up flotsam and built himself a chair. We later returned to the calmer bay and whiled away the rest of the afternoon on fun-noodles.
The Manjack beaches were pleasure enough, but we also had the luck of timing, arriving to the beach just as the tide was turning. When the tide turns, the larger creatures of the sea hear the dinner bell. While wading in the creek, a ray with a 4 foot wing-span floated quietly past us, coming within 5 feet of me. And a little later, we spied a sand shark at the edge of the beach, looking for its meal ticket (not us!!).
Turning tides also brought us many dolphin encounters. Usually preceded by skittering – and sometimes jumping and flying – fish, swimming to escape their predators, the turn of the tide was the time we were most likely to see the dolphins’ smiling faces. In Little Harbour, many of them frolicked around our anchored boat, and then rode our bow wave out of the anchorage. And in Fisher’s Bay was saw several as well, chasing their prey close to shore and going in for their meal. Seeing dolphins usually makes me clap my hands like an over-excited 4-year-old, but I can’t seem to help myself.
A dolphin -- one of several -- keeps us company at anchor in Little Harbour.
