Living in the Bahamas - Snorkeling Hopetown and Abaco

Living in the Bahamas - Snorkeling Hopetown and Abaco(Gordon England) HOPETOWN, ABACO, THE BAHAMAS

I motored into White Sound in Elbow Cay where idyllic Abaco Inn overlooked a glistening turquoise bay. Sailboats dotted the small harbour lined with swaying coconut trees along a sparkling beach. White cottages with pastel chairs on wide verandas hid between trees and dunes scattered along a charming hillside. We checked in and soon rendezvoused at an open windowed bar, the hub of all hotel action. Laughing explorers and brown sailors crowded a nautical bar where tropical drinks flowed from multitudes of brands and flavors of rum. Beach debris adorned the walls creatively transformed into nautical décor. Calypso music thumped through speakers. A stunning western view showed green islands backdropped on clear, turquoise water. What more magic could a tropical resort have?
“A round of Bahama Mamas for my friends,” I told the bartender. “Will, these are fantastic. They’re mixed with three fresh juices and three kinds of rum.”
“To die for,” agreed Annie.
Will replied in awe, “This view is spectacular.”
I smiled, “Look behind us. That dark blue Atlantic goes all the way east to Africa, and you can see Marsh Harbour across the bay in the west. You know this is another one.”
“One what?”
“Buffett calls them Particular Harbours.”
“You’re so right. Does it get any better than this?”
“Oh yeah, we’re just getting started.”
“I hope so.”
Annie spoke up, “On our trip here last year we came down with a bad case of island fever and bought a lot on Lubbers Quarters, a nearby island.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Our lot is close to Cracker P’s restaurant, where we’ll eat tomorrow. We’re thinking of building our retirement home there. We’d have our own beach and dock.”
“Wow, you guys are serious. Abaco makes me drool. I just might have to buy a house over here and be your neighbor.”
“We could fish and dive every day, buddy.”
“Look, over there,” Annie said, pointing at a seaplane circling low over us. It lined up on White Sound’s channel markers and set down gently on smooth water in front of us.
“Can you believe it’s coming here?” I asked.
The plane motored up loudly until its pontoons settled on the beach next to our boat and shut off the engines. Silence descended upon the bar crowd.
“Have you ever seen an ocean landing before?” I asked Will.
“I can’t say that I have. I’m taking flying lessons, but I wouldn’t want to land on water.”
“Look at the markings.” Annie pointed excitedly. “It’s a Miami Dolphin plane. They’re my favorite team.”
“No way,” I replied.
“Yes,” said our bartender. “That’s Wayne Huizenga’s Dolphin plane. He comes over pretty regularly for a drink.”
Annie went to a window and stared with anticipation as the plane’s door opened. Ten boisterous partiers dropped into shallow water, waded ashore, and walked up the hill. Annie drooled with excitement.
“I hope we meet some football players.”
When they entered the bar, Annie walked over to them with her big smile and said, “Welcome to the Abaco Inn. I’m Annie and those two quiet engineers over there are my husband, Gordon, and friend, Will.”
An energetic, middle-aged lady in a flowered blouse responded, “Hello Annie, I’m Jean.”
“Is that your plane?”
“No, it’s my brother Wayne’s plane. We borrowed it today to go island hopping. They picked me up at Harbour Island in Eleuthera this morning. We’ve already been at Little Harbour and Great Guana Cay visiting their charming bars. Next, we’ll go to Treasure Cay, and then back to Miami at sunset.”
“Sounds like a splendid day,” replied Annie. “Are there any ballplayers with you?”
“There’s an assistant coach with us. Let me introduce you.”
They drifted to a table and began an animated conversation with Jean’s friends.
“We’ve lost her now,” I told Will. “This is so cool; you never know what’s going to happen in Abaco.”
“This place is magic. Bartender, more Bahama Mamas and an order of conch fritters,” Will said.
After a round of drinks, the Dolphin crowd staggered back to their plane. Its engines started and the green and white seaplane motored out the channel. It turned around facing us and the wind. Rpms increased, pushing the plane between markers, straight toward us. We held our breath as the plane barreled shoreward. Its nose rose at the last minute, barely skimming above the bar. Wings wagged and then dipped in a northern turn in search of another tiki bar.
After a delicious dinner of fresh grouper and lobster, Annie and I retreated with pina coladas to an extra-wide hammock strung between two coconut trees on the beach to enjoy a dazzling sun settle into a shimmering sea. A gentle breeze rippled across sparkling water and steel drums tickled our ears.
“Happy anniversary darling,” I whispered to her.
“I love this place. I hope we come back here every year.”
“Better yet, maybe we’ll build that house before long. I’ve been working on permits for a year now.”
“Wouldn’t that be great?”
“We could do this every night.”
“Hmmm.”
All was well in Abaco.

In the still dawn, mourning doves cooed as they rustled through thick brush. We drove a golf cart to Hopetown where the island rubbed sleep from its eyes. Bonefish chased mullet with primordial splashing in an eternal struggle for survival. A fishing boat puttered quietly among sailboats in the sheltered bay. Small waves lapped against docks and seawalls, causing boats to creak against lines and fenders. On top of a hill, we watched an orange fireball rise out of the luminescent sea, reflecting Mother Ocean’s mirror from horizon to horizon. Coconut and palm trees along the beach stood as silent sentinels to a new day in Abaco.
An invigorating aroma of coffee led us to a waterside café where we ordered fresh baked Bahamian bread. Tropical reef fish swam in clear water, evading barracuda patrolling among pilings. These soft, magical mornings caused me to come back to Hopetown every year to escape civilization’s frenetic pace.
“This is harbour number two,” I told Anne.
“You’re right.” She smiled.
“There’s more you know.”
“Do you think we’ll find them all?”
“It’ll take a long time.”
“We’ll make time.”
After breakfast, we rolled Will out of bed, loaded dive gear onto our boat, and sailed away for an island adventure. Though Annie wore just a bathing suit to maximize her tan, I covered myself from head to toe with protective clothing to prevent sunburn. Our catamaran’s dual hulls cut through still water like soft butter as we steered ten miles south past Lubbers Quarters and Tilloo Cut toward protected areas for fish and lobster on a dive reef at Pelican Cay National Land and Sea Park.
A strong incoming tide pushed us toward Pelican Cay, so we tied off on a dedicated reef buoy rather than dragging an anchor across fragile coral. I turned off the motor and let my view turn 360 degrees over glistening turquoise water and small rocky islands. No other boat or trace of mankind appeared in sight. Our getaway from the modern world was complete. We listened to the ocean’s silence as waves rippled against our rocking boat. Afraid to lose the moment, we sat still, not looking at each other. I raised my face upward to let Mother Ocean wash the worries of life from my soul.
After a moment, Annie said, “This is really what I need. I’m so tired of worrying about lawyers.”
“And I’m tired of worrying about more clients for the boss,” I replied.
“Do you think there are any engineering jobs around here?” Will asked.
“I doubt it. Nothing is being built.”
“New piers and houses are the only things I’ve seen constructed around here,” Will noted.
“We’d starve,” I concluded.
He laughed. “That wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.”
“Let’s dive before the tide changes. The current will push us toward those rocks, so we’ll line-dive instead of free dive.”
Annie guarded our boat while working on her tan. Will and I donned wetsuits, fins, and snorkels, then jumped into clear, warm water to explore a stunning reef. We tied lines to stern cleats and held on to them as we worked our way backward, hand over hand along our lines, as the tide pushed us toward a rocky shore. I tied the line around my wrist, just in case. These alluring waters turn treacherous with no warning.
Currents from deep Atlantic waters washed past my head with no algae or pollution, giving unbelievable visibility of at least a hundred feet. I dove down fifteen feet and stayed suspended on my rope above a lush reef covered with a rainbow of brain, staghorn, and star coral. Swarms of shimmering tropical baitfish undulated in swirling currents. Multicolored grouper, snapper, and moray eels wandered through pristine reefs undamaged by man. Purple sea fans swayed hypnotically, bringing time to a standstill. I slowly floated to the surface, taking in my own private aquarium’s dazzling beauty. My trance ended abruptly when I heard waves crashing on rocks.
I lifted my head and called to Annie, “Are we still tied to the buoy?”
She checked the bow.
“Yes.”
I put my head back underwater, searching for lobster. Spotting something unusual, I dove to a car-sized, orange brain coral and looked under a ledge. A thick, green moray eel charged out, teeth slashing. Swimming backward is a futile exercise, so I froze, or at least tried to in the swift current. His evil eyes and vicious grin warned me to stay away. Sensing no danger, he retreated to his hole as my pounding adrenaline receded. I surfaced and became alarmed to see our boat now broadside to two-foot waves, drifting away from me. We definitely had a problem.
I yelled to Annie, “Something’s wrong, check that line again.”
Shortly she replied, “Oh my gosh. We’re tied to the buoy, but its anchor line broke loose and we’re drifting fast. Get in the boat!”
I grabbed Will’s line and jerked it as a signal for him to return. Annie couldn’t start the motor until we boarded because the propeller, being precariously close to the dive ladder, could shred a slipped foot. Will scurried up the ladder first. While I waited to go aboard, my loose line knotted around the propeller. This was not good. I took a deep breath and relaxed, then reached with my right hand for the knot on my left wrist. My thick dive glove prevented me from working the tight knot. I pulled the glove off with my teeth and threw it over the transom. My right-hand fingers fumbled uselessly with the knot.
In two-foot seas, the motor became a deadly mace as it danced up and down. I dove to the prop and pulled uselessly at the line wrapped tightly around the blades. I grabbed the lower unit to avoid its sharp propeller. Our boat rose violently on a wave, breaking free of my grip. I went up for air and dove back down to time the motor’s rise and fall. When it paused at the bottom of a wave, I jerked the line hard, breaking it free. Back at the surface for air, I pulled off one fin and threw it on board, hitting Annie.
“Watch out!” she yelped. “What’s taking you so long? We’re way too close to shore.”
I threw my other fin over the gunnel, then grabbed the dive ladder and pulled myself up.
“We’re coming up on those rocks fast,” Annie cried, “Hurry up.”
“Pull in those lines,” I told Will.
He cleared our dive lines, but the buoy line still swayed near the prop.
“Don’t start that motor,” I yelled. “Will, cut the buoy loose.”
He grabbed his Scubapro dive knife and scrambled to the bow where he sliced the line and pushed the buoy clear so Annie would not drive over it. When Annie finally fired up the engine, we were a scant twenty feet from treacherous rocks on the shore and closing fast. She slammed the throttle forward and spun the wheel, narrowly sliding away from disaster.
“You sure cut that one close,” I exclaimed.
She and Will exploded with laughter and relief.
“Where to now Captain?” she asked.
“I’ve had enough diving. Let’s go to a beach and chill.”

Half an hour later we approached Tahiti Beach at the southern tip of Elbow Cay. That mile-long stretch of bright white beach looked like a South Seas travel brochure with hundreds of coconut trees swaying along a pristine shoreline. Along the dune tops, sea grapes, palm trees, and lignum vitae with purple flowers painted a gorgeous mosaic. A sand bar swept out from the beach under shallow, gin-clear water that faded into crystal blue. I saw no coral or grass on the sea’s bottom, just a blank canvas of bleached sand extending hundreds of feet before slipping off to deeper seagrass beds.
“What a spectacular beach,” Will said in awe.
“Abaco beaches are the best I’ve seen,” Annie replied.
“I don’t want to go back to that sorry engineering office.”
“That’s why I brought you down here,” I chuckled. “To mess your head up.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Scattered across the bottom of the bay lay a multitude of sand dollars and live conch between many eighteen-inch long orange starfish. We stopped our boat offshore and jumped in with snorkels. Grabbing our drift lines, we let the breeze driven boat pull us across the sandbar to deep water.
When we returned to the boat, Will said, “We’re not quitting now, let’s do that again.”
We made another drift across the sandbar, mesmerized by the water’s quiet solitude and a vast expanse of smooth whiteness. Tension and strain from a busy world flowed out of my body into peaceful water. Soon I fell to sleep as I floated with my snorkel above water.
I woke up later and swam back to our boat to drink a beer. As I watched Will and Annie snorkel, the brown shape of a large fish emerged from deep water behind them. A twelve-inch dorsal fin rose above the surface, pushing water like a torpedo. A bull shark!
I jerked on Annie’s line and yelled, “Shark!”
When she looked back to see the fin zigzagging on the prowl, her eyes bulged behind her mask. Her shark phobia from watching Jaws too many times pushed her panic button. She frantically kicked back to the boat, flew up the ladder, and hid in the bow hyperventilating under a towel.
Once Will saw the brown beast closing in, he too swam like a madman to the ladder and climbed in. The fearless shark cruised behind our boat. Crunch! He chewed on the propeller, rocking the boat.
“He almost ate me,” Annie cried hysterically. “I’d have been taken to Africa and there was nothing you could’ve done.”
The shark circled the boat, while Annie yelled and pointed in terror. Will and I looked at each other and laughed at our close call - what an adrenaline rush. I started the motor and eased up next to the beast to take pictures as it swam with impunity at the top of its food chain. Another boat pulled up to help us herd the bull shark toward beachgoers in shallow water.
Annie yelled to swimmers, “Shark! Get out of the water.”
When they realized their impending doom, they stampeded back to their beach, then directed unpleasant epitaphs toward us. The shark cruised in two-foot-deep water next to the beach, then turned and charged at us in anger. Bam. It smashed our boat, forced its way under the hull, and swam away for deeper water.
“We’re gonna sink!” Annie shrieked.
“Give her a beer,” I told Will.
“I need one too, there are tooth marks on my fins. I’ve had enough fun for one day. What do you say we call it quits and find some dinner?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Annie agreed.
I turned our boat and left the shark to his endless hunting.

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