Clarence Town, Long Island, Bahamas
March 15, 2010
Warderick Wells to Georgetown
Arrival at Warderick Wells was intended to provide us with some respite from the weather. Not everything in the world comes to those who hope.
Warderick Wells is the main office for the Exuma Land and Sea Park, a national Bahamian preserve of several thousand square miles. At first glance you would wonder what is being preserved. The Park is a medium sized sand strewn desert rock surrounded by ocean. The Exumas are a long chain of sand strewn desert rocks surrounded by ocean.
In 2005 the Park had a few mooring balls and a nice anchorage. This year the anchorage has been replaced with mooring fields to be rented at $20 a night. Why, one wonders, would anyone pay $20 to moor off a sand strewn desert rock when there are so many similar rocks offering free anchorages? Good question. No answers from us.
With another BIG cold front forecast many cruising boats wanted a protected mooring ball. Not everyone was destined to get one but the allocation process was a hoot.
Boaters wait on the radio until 9 a.m. when the park officer opens the radio booking frequency. The park officer might be described by some as a prissy little bitch. Those describing her in this way share neither the erudition nor empathy with the human psyche which resides in your humble scribe. They would also be quite correct. Let us just say Ms Prissy had a keen sense of her importance in God's universe. If I were God I might be worried.
As the radio crackled with a multitude of requests it was let slip that some boats already on a ball were cleverly reserving empty mooring balls for their friends who were due to arrive later in the day: like those morons who let their friends break into line ahead of you at the movies. We found out later that not all reservations were honoured and some mooring balls were empty even as the storm began.
In the end there was a mooring ball for Meredith but the Budget Committee and I decided we did not like the environment one little bit so we declined the offer. You could sense the bewilderment on the part of Ms. Prissy when we declined which soon morphed into burgeoning resentment. And I was so polite in my declination. Almost cloying. Almost.
So it was off to the next sand strewn rock for us to seek protection. Chris Parker the weather guy was very insistent about both the depth and breadth of the oncoming met event.
There are so many sand strewn rocks in the Exumas. Course was set for Pipe Creek some 15 miles south. First of course I had to dive on the boat to cut the prop loose from the pall of errant nylon line which had wrapped itself boa constrictor like around our shaft the night before.
Enroute to Pipe we listened to an increasing volume of increasingly strident calls from boaters seeking safe harbour at Compass Cay Marina. Tension grew and voices rose as the storm approached.
Pipe Creek is the Venice of the Bahamas. Not a creek at all it is a series of tiny cays and shifting sandbanks divided by a series of waterways connecting Exuma Sound with the Atlantic Ocean. Amongst these tiny cays can be found any number of anchorages with fabulous protection from waves. Most anchorages will not accommodate more than one or two boats. Most anchorages are not in exactly the same place this year as last.
Entry to Pipe Creek is interesting and is gained by following a narrow circuitous path through shifting sand banks, each path detectable only by the fact that 10 foot water is deeper in hue than is 5 foot water. A GPS, with an average HDOP (horizontal difference of position) of 75 feet is useless. The channels can be only 10 feet wide and run for 3 or 4 or 5 miles.
In this environment a chartpotter is about as useful as a lead weight on a long string - but only if you first tie the chartplotter to the string.
The Budget Committee took the bow and guided Meredith by sight through the circuitous channel above Little Pipe Cay.
Finding the channel is a very religious experience: like God it does not reveal itself to mere mortals. A good deal of faith is involved.
Ultimately the BC won out and in doing so gained Meredith an empty anchorage. The hook set and backed down on at 1800 RPM it was time for a drink. We were all alone in one of the two most spectacular anchorages we have ever experienced - rock islands, sand bars, myriad streams running with strong current.
As we settled in a nameless French woman, a gaunt and seemingly in her mid 70s, paddled out to us in an orange kayak.
As always we engaged our newly met fellow boater in conversation. Quickly the conversation became more of an inquisition on the part of our diminutive female friend. As we were about to ask the woman what she was about she offered it up to us:
"So - you are not Missionaries?" It was not a question but a determination on her part, a statement of fact. We readily acquiesced with her assessment of our character.
"Good. Then I bring you this". With this the French woman handed the Budget Committee a grocery bag full of fresh picked lettuce - two kinds along with fresh basil, thyme and mint. (And tomatoes the BC says I must say)
She also had a mooring ball in front of her cottage, she explained and she offered it to us to wait out the "big storm coming". As you can imagine we accepted her generous offer.
Her mission accomplished, her guests having been properly vetted, our erudite friend took her leave. With not so much as "bye" she pushed off Meredith's side and paddled home. We did not learn her name and ascertain her nationality only through her accent.
We quickly weighed anchor and navigated into the protected pond containing the mooring ball. Diving on the ball and its pendant I judged it to be more than adequate to hold Meredith during a hurricane let alone 3 days of 35 knot wind.
We put the boat away, securing any loose items and went below for dinner.
It would be 4 days before we emerged for any purpose other than checking the pendant to the mooring for chafe.
Previous to this encounter the Missionary Position had always seemed a touch pedestrian aboard Meredith. No longer.
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