All cruisers count on weather forecasts, and most of us get weather reports from as many sources as we can. Randy favours the weather on WIFIMarguerita, Windguru, and ugrib, and of course, Chris Parker on the single-side-band radio every morning. Except when there's very bad weather in Florida, and both of Chris's antennas are knocked out by a tornado, and there's no wifi connection to hook you up with all your other sources. Sometimes you just have to look outside and go with your gut.
Which is what happened when we were at Conception Island, one hop from Clarencetown. We'd had a nice fast motorsail from Long Island -- 6 knots under power without guzzling fuel, but add just 8-10 knots of breeze, and with all sails up, she'll do 7+. Again, not so good for fishing, but I'm starting to think that there must be some nutritive value in sargasso weed. I've caught many dozen bouquets of the stuff. Perhaps it has medicinal value. I'm covered with bruises after all this sailing, and on the way into Conception, I was standing on the bow waiting to drop the anchor and I sneezed, dipped my knees as one sometimes does with a big sneeze, and whacked the sampson post with my shin. Like a good sailor, I kept the blood from dripping on the teak until we were anchored. Randy suggests soccer shin pads.
From there, we headed for Cat Island without a current forecast, but managed to dodge the one enormous squall and cross a lot of shallow water to anchor by New Bight on Saturday night. Music from shore was loud and confused and basically horrible. I thought of Puerto Rican Saturday nights with nostalgia.
Next morning we went ashore for a walk and counted the churches in this little community. Lots, with all different styles of worship and music. Some shouting, some quiet voices singing, and a couple of small energetic bands. One new church with a very loud preacher exhorted his congregation and his every shout was punctuated with a loud tuneless blat from the trumpeter. Someone would be speaking to that fella after the service I predict. Some of the partiers from Saturday night were still asleep near the beach in the late morning, and a lady had opened up one of the tiny stores sell them cold pop to help their heads. So we stopped too, and it's the first time we've ever bought a cold beer from a very nice lady in her nightie.
We passed by an well-kept old graveyard on our walk, and everywhere, the ancient stone walls of old houses and churches stand upright next to the new buildings. The old wooden roofs, window and door frames are gone, but the walls and foundations are solid.
The main attraction in New Bight is "the Hermitage," at the peak of Mt Alvernia, aka Mt. Como, the highest point in the Bahamas. Quite a hike, you'd think, but this is the Bahamas, and the peak is 206 feet above sea level. We strolled to the base of the hill and got a good look at subsistence farming techniques. You couldn't call them fields, just patches of land with the brush whacked off at chest height, then burned, then planted. Cabbages, tomatoes grow in any patch of dirt in the crevices of the limestone, and the patch is ringed round with tall corn, like a fence. No point picking rocks, there's nothing but more rocks underneath.
The Hermitage was built by Father Jerome, who was first an architect, then an Anglican priest, then a Catholic priest. He was big on building churches, several different denominations worth. The Hermitage was his retirement project, built it by hand, by himself, and he died there, a hermit, at age 80.
The stations of the cross are illustrated in concrete and stone cairns as you clamber up the steep, steep stairs and rocks to get to the top. We'd picked up a guide on our way, a cheery spotted white dog, but he stuck so close he was a bit of a liability on the upward and downward climb.
You can see the place for miles around, but when you get there, it's actually very tiny. I thought of the Friendly Giant for some reason. I wrote our names and "Lake Annis, Nova Scotia" in the guestbook in the chapel, which could have fit entire into the cockpit of the boat. We've seen lots of forts and ruins and churches, but this was a charming place, very pretty, very clean, odd and uniquely personal. A place of happy solitude.
See below for photos.
Which is what happened when we were at Conception Island, one hop from Clarencetown. We'd had a nice fast motorsail from Long Island -- 6 knots under power without guzzling fuel, but add just 8-10 knots of breeze, and with all sails up, she'll do 7+. Again, not so good for fishing, but I'm starting to think that there must be some nutritive value in sargasso weed. I've caught many dozen bouquets of the stuff. Perhaps it has medicinal value. I'm covered with bruises after all this sailing, and on the way into Conception, I was standing on the bow waiting to drop the anchor and I sneezed, dipped my knees as one sometimes does with a big sneeze, and whacked the sampson post with my shin. Like a good sailor, I kept the blood from dripping on the teak until we were anchored. Randy suggests soccer shin pads.
From there, we headed for Cat Island without a current forecast, but managed to dodge the one enormous squall and cross a lot of shallow water to anchor by New Bight on Saturday night. Music from shore was loud and confused and basically horrible. I thought of Puerto Rican Saturday nights with nostalgia.
Next morning we went ashore for a walk and counted the churches in this little community. Lots, with all different styles of worship and music. Some shouting, some quiet voices singing, and a couple of small energetic bands. One new church with a very loud preacher exhorted his congregation and his every shout was punctuated with a loud tuneless blat from the trumpeter. Someone would be speaking to that fella after the service I predict. Some of the partiers from Saturday night were still asleep near the beach in the late morning, and a lady had opened up one of the tiny stores sell them cold pop to help their heads. So we stopped too, and it's the first time we've ever bought a cold beer from a very nice lady in her nightie.
We passed by an well-kept old graveyard on our walk, and everywhere, the ancient stone walls of old houses and churches stand upright next to the new buildings. The old wooden roofs, window and door frames are gone, but the walls and foundations are solid.
The main attraction in New Bight is "the Hermitage," at the peak of Mt Alvernia, aka Mt. Como, the highest point in the Bahamas. Quite a hike, you'd think, but this is the Bahamas, and the peak is 206 feet above sea level. We strolled to the base of the hill and got a good look at subsistence farming techniques. You couldn't call them fields, just patches of land with the brush whacked off at chest height, then burned, then planted. Cabbages, tomatoes grow in any patch of dirt in the crevices of the limestone, and the patch is ringed round with tall corn, like a fence. No point picking rocks, there's nothing but more rocks underneath.
The Hermitage was built by Father Jerome, who was first an architect, then an Anglican priest, then a Catholic priest. He was big on building churches, several different denominations worth. The Hermitage was his retirement project, built it by hand, by himself, and he died there, a hermit, at age 80.
The stations of the cross are illustrated in concrete and stone cairns as you clamber up the steep, steep stairs and rocks to get to the top. We'd picked up a guide on our way, a cheery spotted white dog, but he stuck so close he was a bit of a liability on the upward and downward climb.
You can see the place for miles around, but when you get there, it's actually very tiny. I thought of the Friendly Giant for some reason. I wrote our names and "Lake Annis, Nova Scotia" in the guestbook in the chapel, which could have fit entire into the cockpit of the boat. We've seen lots of forts and ruins and churches, but this was a charming place, very pretty, very clean, odd and uniquely personal. A place of happy solitude.
See below for photos.
posted by Susan at 10:03 PM
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