Bahamas, Mon!

Leaving Miami Moo Moo pointed towards Bimini, the furthest point west of the Bahamas for a twelve hour passage. The water was calm and we arrived at 1 AM in a nearby anchorage. When arriving in a new country via pleasure watercraft, it is practice to hoist a yellow flag indicating the vessel is waiting to check in. At 1:30 we hoisted a yellow pillowcase and fell asleep. 

We woke up the next morning with our hull floating in clear water. They really aren’t kidding when they say the Bahamas is the clearest water you’ll ever see. Extenuated by the shallow water, the views into the ocean are remarkable. After all, the Bahamas is said to be named the Bahamas after the Spanish words “Baja mar” meaning shallow ocean.

Checking in was an easy process. Nobody boarded us, and only one was required to show up to immigration — requiring a mile walk down the street. Dan brought both of our passports to the immigration office, bought us a three month cruising permit ($150), and we were good to go.  

We had traveled down the ICW playing hop-scotch with this guy named Rick, who was now, as of Miami, cruising with his brother, Tom.  Rick and Tom had met up with us at the marina in Bimini and we decided as a team that we would sail across the Bahama Bank to Chub Cay the next day, at the southern end of the Berry islands. 

Waking up at first light early the next morning we began our Bahamian adventure. The water was glassed over for the entire two day voyage which meant for an incredible sunset. As daytime was ending, I neared the bow of the boat and pulled our anchor and fifty foot chain from the anchor compartment.  Placing it under the life lines and working to keep my balance on the narrow deck between the anchor chamber and edge, I dropped it until it touched the bottom: a job that was now easier to do considering we could actually see the bottom. As we dropped anchor in the center of the bank, with nobody in sight, it was nearly impossible to say where the ocean differentiated from the sky on the horizon as low-lying fog gently engulfed us in sunset’s abstracting wavelengths as we paddled our dinghy from Moo Moo to Nova Vita, Rick’s boat, for dinner and drinks. The ocean didn’t twinkle one bit that night, which made for a very ~flat~ and comfortable sleep in the middle of nowhere.

(Photo: Nova Vita in the center of the Great Bahama Bank at sunset)

(Photo: me climbing the mast in the Bahama Banks. The shredded part of our sail wrapped around the forestay and we couldn't pull our genoa out to get sailing...so I climbed up and cut it off)

The next day was much of the same, moving over clear water, until we arrived in Chub Cay. For us, Chub Cay was totally not “it”. We couldn’t get in any stores or into any bars or restaurants.  These resources were reserved for members of the Marina, only. Mega-yachts and a few massive houses dominated the place. So we left.

That next day we sailed alongside the shoreline in winds between fifteen to twenty knots, our happy place. Moo Moo handles well with a healthy heel. As we swiftly make our way along the coastline of the southern  Berry Islands, we plan to cut into the protected waters for a few days of comfortable anchoring and our first remote island exploring.  With high spirits, gusting wind, and comfortable swell, we enter the cut downwind.  Everything works smoothly for a while, we’re surfing small waves into the calmer waters inside and getting stoked for our first snorkel. Then there’s a crack sound and I see a small black piece from our boat shoot off our side. The boom crosses with the angst of an accidental gybe and the tack of the sail has twitched off the mast. With gusting winds, our sail is now at a 90* angle from the mast, resting on the starboard shrouds. The joint between our mast and boom has snapped — flying pieces in different directions. Surprised, Dan and I look at each other startled. Do we take down the sail? We’re both rattled and also concerned that we’ll catch wind — or a wave — on the wrong side and swing the boom again, potentially ripping our sail. Considering our Genoa is already ripped entirely down one side, we really can’t risk also shredding our mainsail.  

(Photo: the joint between boom/mast (the gooseneck) after it snapped and we lost control of the sail)

The engine comes on and we cruise the waves into calmer waters beyond the parallel peninsulas of Little Whale and Bonds Cay.  When the waves settle, Dan goes forward and takes down the sail. We anchor nearby in an anchorage protecting us from North and Easterly winds. Thankfully, before leaving Norfolk at the beginning of our trip in December, we had noticed the gooseneck (the joint between the boom and mast) was deteriorating. Because we are just soOo well prepared we had ordered a replacement piece. Thank god, because we definitely needed it. After pulling onto anchor Dan and I de-rigged our mainsail, replaced the gooseneck, and paddled to shore where we went snorkeling.

The tourism industry that supports most people’s income in the 700 islands of the Bahamas exists, in part, because of the incredibly clear water.  It intrigues divers, fishermen, and snorkelers from all over the world.  The water is very clear and appears turquoise moreso than other marine ecosystems.  This occurs for a few reasons. First, the water in much of the Bahamas is very shallow, the Great Bahama Bank that we had traveled on between Bimini and the Berries reaches a maximum depth of 33 feet. Most of it where we were was probably only 10-15 feet deep. Some sunlight is absorbed in the water, reflecting back turquoise, but mostly it is reflected off of the “barren” white sandy bottom of the bank. The bottom of the sea in this region I’m talking about is made up of sediment. The sand grains are larger and heavier than in other places, so they have a tendency to sink and stay contained on the bottom of the ocean rather than floating around in the water. I’ve also noticed the “sand” in the Bahamas is super clay-like. My feet sink into the sand much deeper than they do in New England, and it’s harder to pull them out. The lack of sediment lifted in the water is accompanied by a lack of nutrients such as phosphorous and nitrogen, which results in a lack of algae and floating particles like phytoplankton as well, which in most places, reflects back a green hue. Due to the absence of both nutrients and sediment in the water, as well as the low-depths, the water appears clear to the human eye.

The sandy bottom of the Bahama Bank is more like a mud bottom. And this mud bottom is responsible for creating one of my most favorite things in the world: limestone. Specifically, the lithosphere in the Bahamas is oolite limestone. Oolite signifies the size of the sediments comprising of the solid limestone.  Limestone is the best rock, in my opinion, to climb.  I’ve encountered it in Arizona, Nevada, Wyoming, and Utah.  In the Mississippian Period, 330 million years ago, the US was submerged under a warm, crystal clear, shallow sea. The ocean floor was made up of shell fragments and lime mud, formed by waves rolling limestone pellets into sediment grain. The ancient sea left behind for us in modern day a blanket of limestone, which I love to climb on. Something similar to what occurred hundreds of thousands of years ago is occurring in the Bahamas. Tiny shells made up of calcite, which appears as a white powder, represents the remnants of dead marine life in the sea. The sediment drifts to the sea floor, gets grounded and becomes dissolved in sea-water before becoming a fine mud. The sediment, pressed together by the pressure of the water, compresses into a rock: limestone.  Both the Bahamas and Florida exist on a bed of limestone: a sharp, brittle, sedimentary rock, which I identify by circular grooves, appearing porous on the surface to encourage incredible finger-pockets.

(Photos: limestone in Ten Sleep Wyoming which would have been under water a lonnggggg time ago)

Calcium carbonate as a mineral is essential for the formation of coral reefs. The  real “reef” part of a coral reef is characterized as a bed of limestone.  Coral is classified as a calcifier which means that it builds its exoskeleton out of the calcium carbonate.  A coral reef is made up of millions and billions of small individual coral animals called polyps on this calcium carbonate. In order for coral to survive it needs particular qualities to persist in the hydrosphere around it, too. Coral reefs are important because they provide life sustaining qualities to other marine biota which, in turn, compound to help support the atmospheric qualities humans need to survive as well. Unfortunately this homeostasis is thrown off by human activity. Roughly one third of carbon dioxide that humans have pumped into the air is absorbed in the oceans, equivalent to about 150 billion metric tons. Carbon dioxide in the water is what increases water acidification.  

To build exoskeletons, the infrastructure that supports the coral reef ecosystem, the calcifier (ze coral) must join calcium ions and carbonate ions to form calcium carbonate, where it can begin the whole “coral reef ecosystem”.  Ocean acidification reduces the number of carbonate ions available to begin with. At some point, the water becomes positively corrosive and breaks down solid calcium carbonate. The measure of calcium ions and carbonate ions in the water is known as the saturation state, which is equally as important as the acidification level when it comes to understanding the formation of coral reefs. When carbon dioxide in the water eats the carbonate ions, the saturation level drops. Prior to the industrial revolution, the saturation state was between four and five. Today there is nowhere the saturation state exists above four on earth, by 2060, nowhere above 3.5.  Drops in saturation levels inhibit the fertilization process of coral as well as larval development and settlement — limiting them from preventing new colonies. Ocean acidification has marked turning points in earth history, the end of the permian and triassic periods. Perhaps it will mark a turning point in our current geological era — the Anthropocene.  

What is going on in the water, aka the hydrosphere, directly impacts the lithosphere, the land.  In turn, the two systems’ qualities create other qualities in the atmosphere particular to the region and so on. The land, water, and air qualities create a biosphere which allows coral reefs to blossom, as well as other life forms like mangroves. Mangrove forests surround much of the coastline and comprise some island areas entirely.  In the intertidal zone where they thrive, mangroves are highly productive because they help to fix nitrogen and and other nutrients in the water. Mangroves are easily identified by their massive prop root systems. The ever-expanding roots help to collect sediment and debris from the water. The creation of new land is a result of the mangrove reproduction system. A slender seed, the mangrove fruit, grows seven to fourteen inches. When heavy enough to fall either naturally or by mechanical phenomena, the seed, standing upright, drops straight into the water into the muddy bottom of the sea. As it spikes itself into a mud bed, the seed grows roots. Nutrient rich mangrove areas, much like coral reefs, provide an environment where life can thrive.  The leaves, when they fall off, land in the water, providing nutrients where bacteria and fungi thrive. The decomposing mangrove stimulates an environment where shellfish and other bottom feeders with shells (that end up creating the limestone) can thrive as well. The coverage of the massive root systems allow a place for these creatures, fish, insects, and birds to grow and reproduce. The productivity of the system relies on the interdependence from species to species, aka the food web. 

Ocean currents and weather play a vital role in the food web. They play the role of the “invisible hand” moving larvae of species across the seabeds.  To explore population density, growth, and declines, the Caribbean Marine Research Center began a comprehensive long term program known as FORECAST. In part it studies the movement of heavily harvested species’ larvae in currents and weather: the spiny lobster, the queen conch, and the Nassau grouper. Essentially, the reproduction system is studied by tracking the relationship between spawning areas to nursery grounds — and how this path is influenced by currents and weather.

It may all seem elementary, but mangrove forests, by developers are considered a wasteland. They’re commonly treated as a place to dump dredged material, to create into lots for development, and to convert agricultural land. Unfortunately, the coastal land mangroves offer a critical value for the tourism industry, of which we are players, where the population of island families and communities rely on the opportunity to build on these lands. Where is the line drawn? 

Moo Moo cruises from coastal town to coastal town where these communities exist in small cement houses. Bimini, Spanish Wells, Staniel Cay, Black Point are some towns we have been to since visiting the Berry islands. Each island is pretty much guaranteed to have a restaurant advertising conch fritters and rum punch as well as slinging the Bahama’s own Sands and Kalik beers. A further walk down any street will bring you to a Casino where the locals gather as early as 8 AM. Each village seems to have a clinic with a resident doctor, or one who comes in twice a week. There’s usually a big ice box near the dinghy dock residing next to a pickup truck for garbage. The trees are full of coconuts or papayas. There is usually a park with benches, perhaps a baseball field, a swingset, and/or a soccer field.  The streets are traveled by barefoot children, teenagers and adults on dirt bikes, and fuel efficient pickup trucks. Small Subaru minivans are popular, too. Dan likes these ones. Some islands offer nothing, just beaches, which is nice for us because we don’t have the money to spend in town.

(Photo: a Bahamian beer, Kalik. Dan loves them)

We stayed on the lee side of the Berry Islands where isolated palmy beaches offer a place to rest and swim.  Mangrove forests offer cuts of tidal waterways to paddle and the rocky shore breaks up stronger waves.  The maps on Navionics don’t indicate any services for miles in either way.  A small pink and blue icon pops up on the maps. In real time, we see eight or nine masts conglomerated in the nearest anchorage to that icon.  The icon, as we zoom, advertises “Flo’s Conch Bar” with reviews shitting on the character of the guy running it, Chester, and the unfortunate quality of the said-to-be-famous conch fritters. That being said, we would love some conch fritters, and the opportunity to see some new faces. Besides, shitty = cheap. Typically. We make our way towards the busy anchorage, the busy-ness being a result of the strong winds, where we radio in to ask others if anyone is going to the conch bar.  A family on a boat named Country Roads radios back, indicating that they are going to be checking out the conch bar, and that they would radio back to us what the deal is.  

Chester is the only guy on the island and therefore is the only guy who runs the conch bar.  When we heard back from Country Roads, we got the information that he will open for us tomorrow. He’s not opened continuously, that wouldn’t make any sense. There is nobody out here. But soon enough, the entire anchorage hears that he will open for service tomorrow, and everyone reaches him through the Captain of Country Roads.  The captain (I forget his name now) is in touch with Chester on What’sApp and lets him know a whole mob is coming in tomorrow for food and drinks.  The next day the same captain picks us up in his dinghy with his wife and three children. We make our way up the creek towards the pink house with large windows. On the roof, painted in huge letters, the roof reads “YOU WELCOME”. Floating fore of the building is a dock, situated in mountains of conch shells.  We all tumble off the dinghy and walk up the hill, no more than 100 feet, to the bright pink building. Chester isn’t in sight, but some of the other boat people have already gotten their drinks. We sit in the shack waiting to meet Chester. Chester comes out, and at first doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. He seems kind of abrasive at first glance, but after ordering and hanging out there for a while, he opens up and shares a bit about himself. Shakira is on the television and he talks about how he loves Shakira. He goes into a locker in the back of the bar and pulls out a folder. He hands it to our table and we look through the photos. There is a photo with him and Shakira at Flo’s conch bar. Shakira had made it all the way out here — which surprises me as much as it doesn’t.  Then we flip to the next photo. Brad Pitt.  Damn. 

(Photos: the Conch Bar and Chester in the Conch bar)

(Photo: conch mountain outside of Flo's...comprised of mostly queen conch)

Our next destination is Spanish Wells.  A small town people rave about on Navionics.  It’s on the Northwestern corner of Eleuthera, another strip of islands.  We forget how long the trip was, but we think it was about forty miles. The wind blows us right where we want to go at a solid six knots. We filled up on diesel in Spanish Wells and spent a few days there until we spontaneously decided, at 4PM on a random day, to send it to the Exuma Land Sea park.

The Exuma Land Sea park is a “no-take” area meaning that there is no fishing or lobstering or really any type of harvesting. Turtle populations, and other animal populations, thrive here. It’s a nutrient rich area. Reefs and mangroves that line and comprise the islands generate populations of fish, turtle, iguana, sharks, and crustaceans that drive tourism for purposes of diving, snorkeling, sight seeing, and pleasure-crafting.  On our approach to the park, about forty feet from a reef, needed to turn on our engine to point closer to the wind. When Dan hits the start button — nothing happens. We try again. Nothing happens. Our engine isn’t turning over. We point back the way we came and sail back out towards the ocean, away from the rocks and reefs, and sail to anchor. 

(Photo: me sailing somewhere)

We cock the fuel tank, drain the filters, drain the hoses, and attempt to clean the filters. We put it all back together and bleed the engine, hoping it just wasn’t starting because of our fuel filters being clogged — although they really weren’t.  I dumped some diesel from the jerry can we had filled into a cup to try to get a hint of the quality of the diesel with which we had filled our tank in Spanish Wells.  Completely brown. Shit. Shit brown.

I dump the cup into the ocean to see how it looks on water — nothing like diesel. It bubbles and doesn’t produce any rainbow-colored glimmer on the surface. Our tank is full to the brim of this stuff, and we are down an engine.  

A few days later, after exploring the mangrove waterways and beaches of the Exuma Land Sea park, we sail to a dumping site and hand pump the diesel out of our boat. (I know this is up for debate but like...literally what do you think is the best way to get rid of bad fuel -- accepting opinions). We get the tank clean and re-do the entire fuel system cleaning process. Moo Moo sails well, getting us to a place called Staniel Cay. A small town with a nice grocery store, hardware store, and yacht club.  Priority one for us is fill a jerry can with new diesel and bring it to the boat. Dan puts the can into the tank and we bleed the engine.  The alternator belt moves a rotation once, but then dies out. The engine is trying to turn over. We’re making progress. Again and again we press the starter. One nut bleeds, the next screw bleeds, and so on, but we can’t get past the injector pump. Our friend Gavin helps us with his jump-starter, but to get far enough in the bleeding process the engine needs to turn, the belt needs to crank. Our batteries are shit — 7 volts. Not good. We need new batteries. A guy with a golf cart drives us up the road to a general store — no batteries. We walk to the next store. Batteries. We need two we decide. 

“How much for the batteries” Dan asks the guy with one arm behind the counter.

“$250” he responds.

I grab one, Dan grabs the other, and we place them in front of the counter. The store clerk’s one hand takes my card, runs it, and shoves a copy of the check for me to sign. $700.

“How is it $700?” Dan asks.

 Without making eye contact and with authority, the guy quietly responds. “$350 each.” 

We look at each other and shrug. Duped. We got duped. At least we were able to even get batteries here. The one-armed clerk motions for us to get in his golf cart. He’ll take us back to the dinghy dock.

When we arrive back at our boat, we’re ready for this engine to work. It has to work. It’s the entire value of our boat. 

After ten minutes, the new batteries are in. Dan presses start and the injector pump screws start spewing fuel.  We’re finally pumping fuel — which means the alternator belt is finally spinning. The engine is working. We’re stoked.  We’re going to the bar.

( To be continued )

If you would like to help contribute to the depletion of our emergency $ buying new batteries/fixing the engine and/or repairing/replacing our Genoa, considering (venmo: @ktmack111 or paypal.me/kaytiehehehe) thanks for reading !!!!