Our Secret Spot (she said)
by Heather 16 Nov 2011
Our room, the pink cottage, at St______
This is our secret paradise. I hesitate to print the name of our long-ago honeymoon spot, as if I could bottle happiness, keep it exclusively for myself and pull it out on festive occasions. I’m neither the first nor the last in the long line of those welcomed at St______. And after meeting some of those bright souls near the front of that long line, I must trust that this small stretch of sand and sea will continue to attract those who belong here.
The St______ Bar
While the waves of modern life do not completely miss St______, neither do they crash upon this shore. Unlike more famous tropical retreats, St______ has more in common with the lakeside resort in the Adirondacks where your grandparents spent their summers than open secrets like Foxy’s beach bar on Jost Van Dyke or the Pussers restaurant chain. St______ started in the mid 1950s as an outpost for sailors and divers, and you can still hear the echos of the past when the dinner bells rings and patrons promptly arrive for the single dinner seating. Laughter flows out the perpetually open windows as the nightly variation of seating companions creates an easy community. Shyness eases as darkness falls and diners find themselves chatting with their neighbors, sharing stories and making new friends.
Our daily adventure
Into this halcyon atmosphere, we arrive to celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary. Each day of our week’s visit will be a self-made adventure. After our hearty breakfast, the bartender tosses us the key to our own 13′ Boston Whaler and the kitchen ladies hand us our picnic lunch. We set off to explore this dusting of tiny islands stretching across the shallow Bahamian sea. Photos cannot capture the gemstone-quality fire of the turquoise waters or the clarity of the sea around the vibrant reefs. Each day we enjoy our lunch, alone, on a different beach. We visit some of the local attractions which include wild iguanas, great beaches, underwater grottoes, several sunken plane wrecks, and fantastic reef snorkeling. It is a schedule governed by the time of the tide, not the time of day. As each day wears on, we turn the runabout toward St______ and fly home across the sea at full throttle, returning to the docks before sunset. Gathering with other guests, locals, folks from down island and visiting boaters we chat in the warm evening air about our various adventures, trade tips and island gossip, and await the dinner bell.
The Adventures
Swimming pigs? Check. Plane crash? Check. Crashing a party on a 106 foot yacht? Check, check and check.
Our turquoise adventure grounds
Swimming Pigs
Swimming Pigs
Pigs are surprisingly robust swimmers. Pigs aren’t stupid either; at the sound of the our runabout, two fat pigs trot out of the thick undergrowth, gaining momentum as they cross the white-sand beach where, with Baywatch-like precision, they run full speed into the surf and start swimming directly to our boat. Holding their snouts high like a snorkel, the two mature pigs snort and grunt with effort as they move toward us, ears pricked up eagerly. Armed with a bag of watermelon rinds from the kitchen, we feed them and scratch their bristly backs, careful not to hurt them with the boat. The pigs gobble the watermelon rinds, but when a second boat arrives they quickly swim toward it. Island local Wayde explains he put the pigs on the island out of concern that the first Gulf War might interrupt cargo barge traffic from the mainland US. Now numbering at about 80, only regular island barbecues on a nearby cay keep the thriving pig population in check.
Plane Crash
The Plane Crash
It is not often one sees (and hopefully less often experiences) a plane crash. Resting on the beach after snorkeling over migrating conchs, we hear the sound of tires squealing. Looking over the water toward the neighboring cay a small airplane suddenly emerges at the end of the island’s runway, tips off the edge of the island over the 8′ embankment and bashes onto the rocky beach. We hastily gather our gear and speed across the half mile of water separating us. “Do you need help?” Kent shouts at a group of men surrounding the plane as we near the shore. “No, everybody’s fine,” comes the pilot’s terse answer. He turns, obviously chagrined, and continues unloading goods from his battered plane. Un-needed, we return to the yacht club for the evening where we divert the late afternoon crowd around the docks with this latest bit of island gossip.
“Stop the Press” at dusk
Party with the Rich
Spending the evening aboard the 106 foot yacht Stop the Press opens our eyes to a whole different level of the boating lifestyle! During happy hour at the bar, the owner casually invites two guests to stop by for a drink after dinner. Egged on by the bolder members of the dinner group, a troupe of eight of us wanders down the docks after eating. Although dying to look at this gorgeous yacht, I approach the gangplank conscious that I am empty-handed and uninvited. Assuaging my fears, the owner and his captain immediately invite all of us on board. Clearly accustomed to partying, those already on board make us welcome. We join local Wayde (of swimming pig fame) relaxing on deck. Instantly the stewardess appears with a round of cocktails as we tour the luxurious vessel. Kent and I spend the evening and well into the night chatting with folks about the boating life, learning how the owner and his friends got so rich (self-made businessmen) and conversing about our favorite places around the globe (surprisingly this list overlaps somewhat). We finally depart the yacht well-past our usual bedtime, retire to our little beach cottage, and fall asleep to the sound of the surf at our doorstep, exhausted from having partied with the rich!
Picnic Lunch Spot
We remember our high-spirited treks around the island chain during our honeymoon thirteen years ago and our second visit in 2008. The changes we both witness temper our adventures during this visit. My older eyes see on the horizon new luxury resorts and private islands with massive generators, dredged shorelines and imported palm trees, gradually filling once-empty islands. Lionfish, an invasive species from the Indian Ocean, drastically reduce the quantity of reef fish. I am not the first nor the last in a long line of those marking changes to these isles, but I keenly feel the differences in this archipelago. I remain devoted to this island. I trust her and her inhabitants to care for her well. I trust that those who should find her will find her. I love the genuine warmth of the staff who simply ARE nice rather than formally trained to appear nice. I love the easy friendship of the locals and the other guests. I love the simplicity of the cottages, the runabouts, and communal meals pulled straight from the water. Most of all, I love the natural beauty of the sea. Each time we return to the area we find St______ is everything we want and not a single thing we don’t. We can’t wait until our next visit.
We have a new underwater camera, a pocket-sized Panasonic DMC-TS3! To browse the slideshow below, click the main photo, the thumbnails, or use the right and left arrows. The photos can take some time to load. Below the first set is a slideshow of our above-water pics.
UNDERWATER PHOTOS BY KENT & HEATHER
MORE PHOTOS BY KENT & HEATHER
This is a wish we were there story. Too bad about the plane, thats called landing long and not going around, won’t do that again. Great pictures above & below the water. Keep having fun!
Yeah, that plane had some pretty serious damage. It’s not like they can get it on a truck to a repair shop either! I suspect it will be there for a while.
Nicely written, Heather. You could publish this in a newspaper/magazine…though then your secret spot would be outted.
Ah yes, the bittersweet temptation to keep a secret vs. sharing a good story!
Such a memorable holiday. We loved being with you guys. Great photos too xx