‘It’ll just take a minute!’ I turned and stroked steadily toward the beach where I scrambled ashore and retrieved the shells. A few minutes later I was back at the Zodiac, handing the bucket of souvenirs over the side to Molly.
My re-entry to the Zodiac was far less dignified than that of my septuagenarian friend. After three attempts, I managed to hoist myself over the gunwale where I balanced ignominiously on my stomach, planning my next move. Eventually, I managed to swing one leg over and roll into the boat, flopping to the floor, panting like a fresh-caught grouper.
‘That was pretty ugly,’ Molly teased as she grabbed the anchor line and started hauling in the anchor, hand over hand. ‘You didn’t need to go back for the sand dollars.’
‘Yes I did.’ I picked up the canvas bucket. ‘See this?’ I pointed to the place where the name of her Zodiac, Good Golly was stenciled in dark-blue paint.
Molly blushed down to her scalp. ‘I take it back. It was an excellent plan.’
With Hawksbill Cay receding in the distance behind us, I said, ‘What do you suppose they’ve got locked up over there?’
Molly shrugged. ‘Equipment, most likely: solar panels, generators, outboard motors and air conditioners. That’s the kind of expensive, hard-to-get stuff that tends to disappear in the islands.’
‘It’s just that . . .’ I paused, trying to make some coherent arrangement of the thoughts that were ricocheting around in my brain. ‘Why the hell does Mueller need all those freaking guards? And did you see that guy? I think he had a gun.’
Molly shook her head. ‘It’s virtually impossible for a Bahamian citizen to own a gun legally, and that includes security guards. Bahamian gun laws are among the toughest in the world.’ She paused. ‘At least on the books.’
‘Seven hundred islands, two thousand cays and God only knows how many miles of uninhabited shoreline, some of it less than one hundred miles off the coast of Florida. Why am I not reassured?’
Molly slowed, eased Good Golly up to her dock, and killed the engine. We made the boat secure, then headed up the dock with me carrying the bucket of sand dollars. ‘Want to come up for a drink?’ my new friend asked.
‘Thanks, Molly, but I’m pooped.’
She gave me a thumbs up. ‘Hannah and Molly’s Excellent Adventure. We must do it again sometime.’
‘You bet!’ I smiled and waved.
As I meandered home along the path that led from Southern Exposure to Windswept, however, the smile disappeared from my face. Excellent? I wasn’t so sure.
There are only so many ways one can phrase the words, ‘Shut up.’
Shut up!
Shut up?
Shut up.
Shut up!
‘Shut up, I said!’ to Alice.
‘Shut up, you moron!’ to his security guard.
Those two words made me almost certain that the man crashing down the hill behind us had been Jaime Mueller.
SIX
IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE, BUT THE ABACO CRUISERS’ NET HAS BEEN ON VHF CHANNEL 68 AT 8:15 A.M. EVERY DAY FOR EIGHTEEN YEARS THIS DECEMBER. THAT’S 6,570 MORNINGS IN A ROW – IN SPITE OF STORMS, WEDDINGS, BIRTHS AND DEATHS THAT HAVE OCCURRED ALONG THE WAY.
Pattie Toler, The Abaco Journal, December 2008
Hannah Ives, Net Control.
Could I be starring in a James Bond flick? Uh, would you believe an episode of Get Smart?
Seven fifty a.m. With a chair pulled up to the kitchen table, Pattie’s ‘bible’ to my left and a spiral-bound logbook to my right, I opened to a blank page. Stuck to the table in front of me were a dozen Post-its where I’d jotted down information about community events so I wouldn’t forget to announce them.
Microphone in my left hand, pen in my right and both eyes on the clock. Paul minding my coffee cup, keeping it full, but adding more sugar than I like.
The digital numbers on the clock ticked from 7:58 to :59 to :00.
Show time!
‘Good morning, this is Hannah Ives at Windswept on beautiful Bonefish Cay. I will be your Net anchor today and I’m standing by on this channel now for anyone who would like to register early for the Abaco Cruisers’ Net which will begin in fifteen minutes on this channel.’
During those minutes the airways clicked and hissed and hummed as listeners called in on their VHF radios, making appointments to talk. Using my notebook, I assigned callers to slots, depending on the category – community announcements, invitations, mail call, new arrivals, departures – on a first-come, first-served basis.
As part of the fun, Paul had come up with the daily trivia question – in what year did the first Americans come to Man-O-War Cay (stubbornly refusing to share with me the answer). Meanwhile, I confirmed with Stu Lawless on Dances with Waves that he’d do the weather report.
When it came to Stu, Paul had serious radio envy. Stu received his email and weather information on a single-side band radio and could download satellite maps from remote anchorages all over the world in the twinkling of an eye. We got our weather from www.barometerbob.com, a reliable source. When the Internet signal cooperated, of course.
At 8:14 I flipped to channel 16. ‘Good morning, all. The Abaco Cruisers’ Net presents weather and announcements now on channel 68.’
And at 8:15, back on 68 I picked up Pattie’s script and my microphone, pressed the talk button, and began reading.
‘Good morning, Abaco. This is the Abaco Cruisers’ Net on the air every day at this time to keep you informed with weather, news and local events. This is Hannah Ives at Windswept broadcasting from Bonefish Cay.
‘Today is Monday, July twenty-eighth. If you think you may be calling in to the Net, please switch your radio to high power now so that everyone can hear you. Remember to use your call signs when calling in, so that I may answer you. I will repeat any messages that sound scratchy, but if you miss anything, feel free to ask me to repeat. You could do the same for me. If I appear to be ignoring a call, I’m not. Your relay will ensure that everyone is included, because, after all, the goals of this Net are safety, friendship and message handling.
‘Weather, the first concern for all of us. We will get an updated weather report now from Stu on Dances with Waves.’
While Stu reported on the weather – sunny, but the chance of squalls later in the day – I sipped some coffee, hoping the caffeine wouldn’t make me more jittery than I already was. Maybe in a few days I’d be as relaxed as Pattie always sounded, able to lean back and plan what to fix for dinner that evening – chicken in the freezer, a nice eggplant, a handful of oddly shaped but flavorful heirloom tomatoes from Milo’s stand over on Guana Cay – but at that moment, I was a caffeine-fueled, microphone-clutching, tightly wound spring.
‘Winds three to five out of the southeast.’ Stu was wrapping up. ‘And if you’re wondering about those smoke clouds over northern Abaco this morning, brush fires have been reported on the old Bahama Star farm, so let’s hope this change of direction doesn’t help them to spread. Dances with Waves out.’
I pressed the talk button. ‘Now that we are up to date on the Atlantic seas,’ I announced, ‘we need to check close to home on the sea state of the Sea of Abaco. For this report we always trust Troy Albury at Dive Guana. Troy?’
If Abaco had a Man for All Seasons, it would be Troy Albury. Dive-shop owner, island councilman, community activist, Troy was also chief of Guana Cay Fire and Rescue; his boat was first on the scene in any emergency. A native of Guana Cay, Troy’d been spearheading the effort to halt the Baker’s Bay project that threatened to overwhelm his tiny island, working his way tirelessly and painfully up through the Bahamian court system. I wondered if he’d turn up at the meeting in Hope Town the following week. Warden Henry Baker could certainly draw on Tony’s expertise for any action plan directed against Rudolph Mueller’s development on Hawksbill Cay.
That morning, though, Troy was wearing his dive-shop hat, reporting calm conditions on the Sea of Abaco, perfect for snorkeling and diving. After Troy signed
off, I called on listeners all along the island chain, asking for sea conditions from Whale Cay in the north to Little Harbour in the south.
Calm conditions all the way.
‘Fabulous!’ I said. ‘Just what everyone dreams of when you think about boating. Look out fish!’
‘We have no emergency email today,’ I continued, consulting my notes. ‘But remember that Out Island Internet has provided a free emergency email service to listeners since 1997 – the address is cruisersatOIIdotnet.’
Gaining confidence with Pattie’s script in front of me, I moved rapidly through the community announcements to headline news. I’d tapped Paul for that. He’d spent the morning checking the New York Times and Washington Post online, taking notes, so that he could summarize what was happening in the world we’d left behind.
Paul wrapped up with the stock market report, then handed the microphone back to me. I took it and gave him a high-five with my free hand.
‘We pause here to let new listeners know what’s coming up next on the Net. First, we will have some invitations from some great places here with special activities you need to know about. Next, are mail call, then trivia, and our open mike session . . .’
‘Break, break!’
Someone was calling with a priority message. I immediately interrupted the script. ‘Caller, this is the Cruisers’ Net. Go ahead.’
‘Uh, this is the Raging Queen out of Key West, and I’m looking for cabin boys.’
Oh, great. I flipped through Pattie’s bible, but there wasn’t anything listed under ‘Assholes,’ so I’d just have to wing it. I pressed down on my talk button, stepping on his transmission, hard. ‘Well, somebody’s had his Wheaties for breakfast! Moving along now . . . after open mike, we have a very special section where new arrivals can announce and introduce themselves, after which we will cover departures. Finally, as close as we can make it to nine a.m. we will have a recap of today’s weather.’
‘Our invitations are coming up first so you can plan on not missing any fun while you are here. First on the list is Curly Tails Restaurant and Bar at the Conch Inn in Marsh Harbour. Come in, Harriet.’
After Harriet finished announcing her lunch specials, I called on the other restaurants in order – Wally’s, Snappas, Mangoes, and the Jib Room where Boo’s description of the baby-back ribs made my mouth water.
‘I don’t know how popular you are back at home,’ I concluded, ‘but here in the Abacos, everyone wants you!’
I breezed through mail call and spent about five minutes on open mike answering questions about where to get a haircut, find someone who could repair an alternator, and to celebrate the fortieth birthday of Mindy on LunaSea with Net listeners each singing a line of the song, round-robin style.
‘New arrivals are next. Do we have any new listeners this morning who are not afraid of the radio and who would like to take this time to introduce yourselves and tell us where you are from? Call signs twice, please.’
Not many sane folks invade the Abacos during hurricane season. FunRunner, a charter powerboat from the sound of it, had just cruised into Marsh Harbour and the all-male crew of recent graduates from West Point said they were in search of patriotic young women with no visible tan lines. Some bonehead from Key West blabbed on for so long about the ‘inedible’ meal he’d had at a restaurant in Treasure Cay that I wanted to break his transmitting thumb, but Mimi Rehor from Buck-a-Book did it for me.
‘Break, break!’
I recognized her voice at once. This could be serious. ‘Go ahead, Mimi.’
‘Avener just called from the preserve saying that the brush fire is out of control. It’s spreading rapidly toward the preserve, and could threaten the horses. We need help moving fences, cutting firebreaks, and beating back the fire.’
I started to hyperventilate just thinking about it. The fires in southern California had occupied the airwaves on CNN for weeks and weeks, and I pictured our precious herd of Abaco Barbs fleeing before the flames, wild eyed and panicked.
While Mimi described the desperate situation they seemed to be facing out on the preserve, I flipped frantically through Pattie Toler’s bible. There was information on the Buck-a-Book container and its opening hours, details on how to arrange a visit to the preserve, and how to contribute to the rescue effort at www.arkwild.org, but nothing about wild fires. What the heck was a Net anchor supposed to do? I’d have to wing it.
I pressed the talk button. ‘Mimi, this is Hannah at Windswept. I imagine you need to get on out to the preserve, so I wonder if there’s anyone in charge of organizing the volunteers.’
Windswept had a pretty good VHF antenna clamped to the roof, but I knew it wasn’t tall enough or powerful enough to reach to all the out islands, or even as far north as Treasure Cay where the preserve was located. If I was to coordinate, I’d need a relay, which would be cumbersome and result in the waste of valuable time. So, I was relieved when Mimi said, ‘Anyone who wants to volunteer should contact Susan Bliss at Outer Limits on seven-three starting now and anytime after the Net. In the meantime we have taxis lined up to pick up volunteers at both ferry landings – the nine forty-five out of Hope Town and the eleven thirty out of Man-O-War and Guana Cays. Just show up wearing long pants, long sleeves and sensible shoes and socks. Bring a machete if you’ve got one.’
While Mimi was talking, I checked my watch. Two and a half hours until the ferry from Man-O-War could stop by for us.
‘Can we take Pro Bono?’ I called out to Paul who had suddenly disappeared. He was, as usual, on top of things. He emerged from the bedroom wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt, zipping up a pair of grease-stained chinos.
‘Sure.’ He threaded a belt through the loops on his pants, cinched it up tight and fastened the buckle. ‘Where are the bandannas, do you know? If there’s smoke . . .’
‘Top drawer of your dresser,’ I said. ‘Bring some spares.’
My hands were so sweaty by now I could barely hold on to the mike. While I recapped the weather for the listeners on the Net, Paul pawed through the utility drawer looking for batteries for the spare hand-held radio he’d laid out on the counter. That would be for me. He’d already strapped the one we used on Pro Bono to his belt. If we got separated at any time during the day, we could still communicate. Paul and I had cellphones, of course, but who knew if there’d be any cellphone signal from the interior of the island. For short distances, the radios were more reliable.
I was nearing the end of the script.
‘Clearing up now, is there anyone with any unfinished business for the Net this morning?’ I removed my thumb from the talk button and waited, holding my breath, listening to white noise, counting one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, before rushing on with the rest of Pattie’s script.
‘Thank you for taking the time to listen. We hope that you enjoyed yourselves. Now please feel free to join our tradition of using this channel as a kind of spare calling channel, so that 16 can be used for hailing, distress and safety as intended by law. Remember to switch to another channel for your conversations and listen first. In Abaco we never switch to 22, 70, 72, 77, or 80. And 06 is reserved for taxis. Please respect these channel reservations. Don’t forget to switch back to low power when calling nearby, and if there is nothing further . . . ?’ I paused, hoping I’d be done for the day. ‘The Cruisers’ Net is clear!’
With blood still pumping hotly through my temples, I rested my head against the back of the chair and let my breath out slowly through my lips.
‘Hard work, huh?’ Paul commented from behind me. He rested his hands on my shoulders and began massaging the tension out of my muscles with his thumbs.
I leaned into him. ‘Wait until I get my hands on Pattie.’
‘I thought she said that anchoring the Net would be a piece of cake.’
‘She did, my love. But she neglected to mention it’d be devil’s food.’
SEVEN
THE OLD SETTLEMENT OF NORMAN’S CASTLE . . . IN DAYS
GONE BY . . . WAS A BUSY LOGGING CAMP, BUT IT WAS ABANDONED IN 1929. TODAY FEW TRACES OF THE SETTLEMENT OR THE INDUSTRY REMAIN AND THE ONLY INHABITANTS ARE HERDS OF WILD HORSES . . .
The Yachtsman’s Guide To The Bahamas,
1992, p. 235
P ro Bono seemed to enjoy her outing, skipping jauntily over the waves for the three and a half mile journey from Bonefish Cay to Marsh Harbour. I sat near the stern, keeping one eye on the smoke that was rising over Abaco, thick as Los Angeles’ smog. The sun made a valiant effort, but only managed to hang high in the pinkish-gray sky like a pale-yellow dime.
I was excited about volunteering, but worried, too. Everything I knew about wildfires I’d learned from watching CNN, so I fretted about wind shifts, sudden gusts, back drafts, and smoke inhalation. But most of all, I worried about the horses.
It was Chloe who told me they’d been named after constellations. Stallions Achenar, Hadar, Mimosa and Capella; and the mares, Nunki, Acamar, Acamar’s daughter Alnitak, and the princess of the herd, at least in Chloe’s wise, eight-year-old mind, the winsome, blue-eyed pinto, Bellatrix II. Chloe would hate me forever if I let anything happen to Bella.
Paul charted a crazy course through the maze of docks at the Conch Inn Marina, then tied Pro Bono to the floating dock moored in the slip closest to Curly Tails restaurant. As usual, taxicab vans were waiting in the parking lot that served both the restaurant and the Guana Cay ferry landing. We had already charted a course for the van nearest the road when a vehicle pulled in that I recognized. I grabbed Paul’s arm. ‘It’s “Papa Lou.”’
I have no idea who Papa Lou is (was?) but the driver of cab #11, Jeff Key, is a Man-O-War resident, a driver who’d cheerfully rearranged his pickups in order to accommodate our trips to and from the airport, or help schlep my groceries between Abaco Grocery, Price Right and the ferry dock whenever I made a major grocery run.
Without a Grave Page 8
