We are still in the first port we landed in at the Bahamas, Lucaya.
I'm still recovering from a busted rib suffered in the maelstrom night
of the trip over, though I'm glad to say Bahamian Spittoon Fever seems
to have passed.
Lucaya is an extensive man made waterway harbor with canals dug hither
and yon for literally miles (and littorly miles, too, I guess). They
did it imagining people would flock to build houses on the waterway
but it has never happened. The lots nearest town center are maybe half
full and the outlying ones much less so.
We anchored in one of the lobes of said waterway happily for several
days. We met some cruisers there and a shoreside ex-cruiser landowner
who let us hang out, use the dock to get in and out of the water, et
cetera. All was happy, happy. There were two other boats anchored
there and the shoreside ex-cruisers lived in several boats at one of
the landowner guy's house's dock. All was happy.
Then the captain of one of the boats anchored there decided to have an
argument with one of the landowner's neighbors. It seems one of the
neighbor's guests had disturbed said captain with a hot rod arrival
aboard a jet ski. Said captain had been anchoring there for six years,
on and off, and he felt he could tell the land owner and his jet ski
guest what to do. Loudly. And in front of the guest.
The anchoring guy forgot a fact of life. You kids should always
remember this fact. It is: big fish eat little fish.
And he was arguing with Bernie, the New Jersey car saleman who had
paid a mil and a half for his place. Bernie was not pleased. He had
embarrassed Bernie in front of one of his biggest clients. And Bernie
knows how to make things happen.
As it turns out, in the Bahamas if a landowner doesn't want you near
his place, he can tell you to move. So yesterday a tall, handsome,
strong Bahamian policeman with a nice uniform with a red stripe down
the legs was riding in Bernie's boat as Bernie took him from anchored
boat to anchored boat telling us all to skiddadle. The guy that
started the argument, us, and the other boat that was hanging out
there were all told to go.
Being good Protestant Camptown type people, we said,"Sure thing,
officer! No problems here!" Then we right away pulled anchor and moved
to another place way out of Bernie's sight and hearing.
Unhappily, it was too near a marina and they said,"Beat it", too. What
to do? What to do?
Just then old Bernie came along in his boat looking for us. He gave us
the lowdown on his run in with the nitwit in the other boat, thanked
us for pulling anchor and told us we could use the dock at his buddy's
place until we were ready to leave the island.
I'm like,"Sweet."
We pull into the place he has indicated and good old Bernie has called
his buddy to square it all away with him, the caretaker of the place
has been put on alert, everything is set up. The caretaker, Luke,
another handsome, strong Bahamian gentleman is falling all over us. He
assures us that anything we need, he can get it in five minutes, ten
max. He shows us around the estate, the pool, the cabanas. He
introduces us to the guard dogs, Bonny and Clyde, two massive Doberman
pinschers, and urges us to feed them if we want to stay friends. (I
immediately busted open a package of cubed ham!). Sweet! Old Bernie
has set us up pretty well!
So I went down to the police station to shake the cop's hand and thank
him for tossing us out of the anchorage. Man, that worked out great!
So remember, kids. Don't argue. Be nice. Get along. And when the man
says hit the road, hit the road!
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