The Caribbean is nuts!
I expected some culture shock when we disembarked at Nassau. But I didn’t expect this.
It was a long wait in line to exit the ship and an even longer wait for our turn on the water shuttle over to the island. But when we stepped off the shuttle it was like getting slapped with the Bahamas right in the face.
The port is teeming with local merchants offering armfuls of souvenirs: beaded jewelry, carved elephants, brightly woven bags, and even tiny pirate ceramics. The vendors don’t surprise me, but I’m taken aback by their volume. They’re so loud and insistent and bursting my personal bubble to thrust knickknacks and maps of the island under my nose.
“You like I braid your hair, lady?” one woman asks. She’s sporting the most amazing head of cornrows I’ve ever seen, all with fat beads at the ends. Gently she tugs at my ponytail. “Make you pretty for holiday.”
“We’re fine, thanks.” Damon smiles, firmly pulling me along. Better traveled, he’s more used to this kind of thing and keeps a guiding arm around my waist as we search for a taxi.
Everyone we’ve encountered is speaking English. Obviously I wasn’t paying enough attention in geography class back in school (it’s not my fault I was seated across from Seth Richie with his gorgeous perm). But I assumed people in the Bahamas spoke, well . . . something other than English.
That distinct accent is present, but I was so startled to hear English from the first few vendors that I did a double take. For a second there I wondered if I somehow instinctively understood whatever language they were speaking. But no. They were speaking mine. Much less cool.
The taxi drivers are even more relentless than the merchants. There must be about twenty of them, each noisier than the last and insisting their cab is the “greatest in the Caribbean, mon!” I thought “man” pronounced like “mon” that people associate with Jamaicans was an exaggeration, but it peppers their sentences constantly.
Our taxi driver is a man with gorgeous dark skin and an alarmingly orange shirt. I ask him about the “mon” thing, and he laughs jovially. “In Caribbean we call everybody ‘mon.’ Man, woman, grandma, tiny baby. Everyone is ‘mon’ here!”
He ushers us into his shuttle with bright graffiti splashed on the side. We slide onto the last of three benches and languish in the car’s hot interior while our driver snags a few more passengers. Soon two others are jammed into the back with us, the other benches are filled, and the whole car smells like rum and suntan lotion.
Some of our companions have been celebrating early this morning and are the kind of laughing and loopy you get only from vacationing drunks. It makes for a loud ride as we pull away from the marina and onto the streets of Nassau.
As we speed along I gawk out the window. The sun is scorching bright on the streets and cracked pavement. There are palm trees everywhere, most limp in the blistering air. The buildings are painted an array of bright oranges, pinks, and greens; the gardens are teeming with tropical plants. It seems nothing here is allowed to be a neutral color. It would conflict with the brilliant sapphire of the sea and the golden sands glimpsed between gaps in the buildings.
But there’s also shabbiness I didn’t expect. Despite the towering hotels on the distant shore, there’s poverty here. The buildings may be painted pink, but often that paint is peeling, the small homes are crumbling with neglect, and there are tatters of clothing on lines drooping between houses.
Several children crouch in the gutters, playing halfheartedly, and it makes my heart constrict. Seeing the humble and even destitute side of the country is part of traveling here. But my personal experience with this kind of thing is the homeless people I’ve spotted on the streets in Salt Lake. I didn’t anticipate it being so prevalent here.
Neither was I expecting such insane traffic! The drivers seem to be competing in a winner-takes-all-casualties-expected drag race the rest of us didn’t agree to. They jolt and roar along, disregarding stoplights, traffic signs, and other vehicles, no matter how close they are to T-boning
their door.
At an intersection, a traffic cop is perched on nothing but a meager box in the middle of the street, attempting to maintain order with only hand signals and a whistle. That is the bravest man alive, I think as we speed past him. He’s just a break tap away from being airborne.
By the time we reach our destination I feel like a NASCAR survivor. I stumble onto the pavement and resist the urge to drop down and kiss it. Maybe we can take a canoe and paddle the long way back to the ship when we’re done.
We’ve reached a much smaller marina. Beside a wooden pier, a few shanty-shops boast, Clams! Shrimp! Tackle!
“Does everyone speak English here?” I ask Damon as he leads me onto the pier.
“Pretty much. A few of the islands here are English on one side and French on the other. But most islanders speak English. It’s the only way to support the tourist trade.”
“Is tourism really that important to them?”
“It’s pretty much their only income. I knew a guy in the Bureau from Barbados. He said they’re so protective of their tourists that if you drop your wallet full of cash on the street, someone will run after you to return it.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “There’s something sad about that.”
“How so?”
“Just that they’re so desperate to take care of their families. Makes me wish they didn’t have to worry so much.”
He twines an arm around my waist. “That’s my Jack. Softhearted to the core.”
The pier is lined with boats—the full spectrum of abundance on display. There are fishing skiffs that are little more than a flag-flying bucket. Then there are larger vessels, still a bit run-down but full of tourists headed out for an excursion. And bobbing a few docks over is a luxury yacht so large it boasts the name Behemoth.
We join a line at the end of the pier beside a medium-sized boat with no upper cabin. It’s just a wheel at the front and a covered deck lined with benches and coolers. A dark-skinned man with a full head of dreadlocks is coming up from a below-the-floor space with an armful of life
jackets.
“Hello!” he greets the group. Dropping the vests onto the scrubbed deck, he indicates the back of the boat where the name of the vessel is scrawled. “Welcome aboard the Benita B! Who is ready for an adventure today?”
Everyone cheers, and he grins. “Excellent! Excellent! I am Amani, and I will be your captain today! Everyone step aboard now; step aboard! Don’t be shy!”
We each climb onto the boat as it bobs in the water and follow Amani’s instructions to don life jackets. He gives us the basic speech about keeping the jacket on at all times and staying seated when the boat is in motion.
“And of course,” he adds. “If you happen to see a pirate ship, hit the deck and hope we don’t get a cannonball in the teeth!”
Everyone laughs, but part of me wishes there were still swashbucklers and peg-leggers about. I went through a childhood phase when I seriously wanted to be a pirate. I wouldn’t have been great at the fighting and the plundering, but I planned to entertain the other pirates with ditties and having my pet shoulder monkey perform little dances for them.
Plus, I can seriously rock an eye patch.
Once we’re each outfitted with a life jacket and seated along the makeshift benches, Amani coaxes the engine to life, and we’re off.
This boat is nothing like my uncle’s fishing dinghy. The engine on his skiff would flood constantly, so we usually ended up paddling to shore. Every wave rocked us until Delia inevitably threw up over the side. We’d limp back to the beach waterlogged and reeking of vomit.
The Benita B may look like she’s been slapped together with duct tape and chewing gum, but she’s sturdy and fast. I have to hold on to Damon to keep from slipping off my seat, wind battering my face.
When at last we stop and strap into snorkeling gear, someone asks, “Amani, who is the boat named after?”
“My first love.” Amani is wistful. “Benita. She broke me heart.”
“So what’s the B stand for?” Damon asks.
“Well, after the first Benita leave me crying, I find another.” He laughs merrily. “So this boat named for Benita B—the sequel!”
That startles a laugh out of me, and my mask slips down off my nose.
“Let me help you there,” Amani says, coming to adjust the strap.
“Thank you!”
“Of course.” He straightens and smiles. “Amani do for you.” He glances at Damon. “You boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“Married.” Damon grins, his arm around my waist.
Amani’s eyebrows shoot up into his braids. “You married already? So young to have marriage!”
“Yeah, we’re lucky,” Damon says.
“Then, let us celebrate!” Amani motions toward the stern and tells me, “Into the water, missus!”
Amani folds the metal ladder off the back of the boat and guides us one by one into the ocean. I brace myself, but it’s like slipping into a warm bath.
There’s a brief moment of alarm as I press my face into the water and adjust to breathing through the snorkel tube. It feels unnatural, but after a minute or two my breathing evens out.
Until I see the fish.
Snorkeling is like getting mugged by the world’s most colorful gang. The second my face is below the surface and I’ve kicked a few feet away from the boat, they’re there. It’s startling how instantly they loom up, fins fanning, mouths spreading in a constant, “Om, om,” motion. Fish are not shy.
The only wildlife I’ve encountered in their natural habitat are squirrels and chipmunks while camping. As a little girl I wanted to make a pet out of a chipmunk. Once, we were able to lure one into our campsite with a strategic line of peanuts. But after he darted up and devoured the spoils he was out of there. No lingering for me to attach a leash and name him Sir Fuzzyface.
Tropical fish are a different story. Quickly I’m surrounded by an entire school with brilliantly colored scales that wink a constantly rippling rainbow. I’m surprised then awed by the beauty of their plates and translucent fins. Then I’m a little claustrophobic when I realize they have me surrounded.
These guys must see thousands of tourists a week, but still they regard me like they’ve never met a human before. I feel a bit like an alien being examined by the indigenous species. And thinking of all the alien stories I’ve seen, I’m starting to wonder if they’re friendly. Or planning to have me for lunch. Sushi in reverse.
I might have stayed there, bobbing in a state of half-wonder, half-panic, if Damon hadn’t come to find me. At his approach the school parts and their attention is diverted to him. The distraction allows me to swim a bit farther, where I can see the coral reefs below.
The reefs blossom out in barbed bouquets from the ocean floor, their purple and white thorns like knobby trees fighting the current as they grow. If ever there was alien terrain, it’s here, where the landscape is ethereally haunting but lovely in its strangeness. The reefs are at least thirty feet down, but the water’s so clear I can see them in great detail, as though I might touch the tops if only I reach down a little farther.
The silence of this extraterrestrial world adds to the sense of isolation. I hear only the rasp of my own breath through the mouthpiece and the distorted, tunnel-distant sounds of other snorkelers as they surface.
I’m so enthralled by the coral reefs I abruptly realize I’ve drifted from Damon. In a spike of fear I turn to look for him and dip the top of my breathing tube under the water. I break the surface, sputtering. Salt water burns my throat and nose, and I have to remove my mask and tube to shake out the sea.
“Hey.” Damon is beside me, lifting off his own mask. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m resituating the gear on my head. “Just lost you for a second.”
He grins, beads of water caught in his hair. “How are you liking it?”
“It’s amazing,” I say. “As long as these fish can learn a little something about personal space.”
He chuckles and glances around. Other than the boat dipping in the swell of waves, there’s only the submerged heads of other snorkelers. Beyond them there’s nothing but an expanse of azure water stretching to the horizon.
But something about his slightly narrowed eyes makes me turn. I half expect that an enormous whale has crept up while my back was turned.
“What is it?” I ask. “You see the kraken?”
“No.” He laughs. “Why are you convinced the kraken is going to make an appearance?”
“It’s the Caribbean. Better safe than have my face suctioned off.”
We stay in that snorkeling spot for another half hour before transferring to another. By the end of the second location I’m more comfortable with the overly friendly fish. I even hold it together when a few bump against me. But I worry every large patch of shadow is something monstrous and “toothsome.”
As we climb, sopping and smiling, back into the boat, I feel giddy. There’s something to be said for adventuring. Not that braving formidable mackerel is the same as skydiving, but it’s a start!
“Now,” Amani says once we’re all seated again. “We have time for one more surprise stop. You interested?”
Everyone cheers, and he returns to the helm. The wind buffeting my hair is balmy and sweet. Damon puts an arm around me, and I snug into his shoulder. It’s gorgeous here. I don’t know how the islanders get anything done. I would just stand around staring all day.
Lulled by the waves, I’m drifting off when the boat circles to a stop.
“Here we are!” Amani says. “Can you guess what brings us here?”
There’s a rock formation looming out of the water and a distant slice of shoreline. But otherwise the water lapping at the sides of the boat looks deserted.
Amani flashes his dazzling smile. “This is the local hangout for gray reef sharks.”
There’s an excited murmur around the boat, but I’m blinking at Amani. I must’ve heard him wrong, because I thought he used the word—
“Sharks,” he repeats. “The gray reef is a majestic creature you can see in its natural habitat.”
“I’m sorry,” I pipe up. “We’re here to see sharks? ”
“Not just see them,” Amani counters. “Swim with them! Be a true Caribbean explorer, and swim with the great predator of the sea.” He pauses. “Who’s ready?”
To my shock, the passengers hop up and start tightening life jackets, replacing flippers, and positioning their masks and snorkels. I stare at them, agog. They can’t be serious.
“Amani?” I hurry over to where he’s adjusting the straps on another guy’s life jacket. “Are you for real? There are actual sharks here?”
“Of course.” He points toward the water. “Look there.”
I turn and tumble back, tripping over a cooler. Two sets of dorsal fins have broken the surface of the water and are slicing toward the boat. “Sharks.” My voice hitches higher. “Sharks!”
At my shriek the others turn. There are gasps, and people scrabbling among their bags. Thank goodness they’ve come to their senses and are searching for a harpoon or something! But moments later they’re snapping pictures on their phones and cameras.
Snapping pictures.
I cower in the corner of the boat, wanting to shout, Stop taking pictures! We should be paddling for shore, you lunatics!
“What’s wrong, missus?” Amani asks, stepping toward me. “You scared of shark?”
“Yes, I’m scared of shark!” I shoot back. “I’m partial to my limbs!”
Amani laughs. “Nothing to fear, missus. Reef shark are not known for biting humans.”
“There’s always a first time,” I say.
“Jack?” Damon approaches. “What’s wrong?”
“Sharks!” I point to where more dorsal fins have gathered. It’s a regular death convention out there. “Sharks—water—swim—bite—dead! ”
Damon looks amused. “Babe, I know you’re not a big fan of sharks—”
“No, no. I’m not a big fan of corn chips. I have stronger feelings about swimming teeth machines.”
He shrugs. “If you don’t want to get in, don’t get in.”
“You can stay in the boat, missus.” Amani nods. “But you will miss all the fun.”
I glare at him. “Oh, you mean like the blood and screaming and the amputation?”
“Just sit it out and watch,” Damon says.
“Watch?” My eyes widen. “So you’re . . . you’re getting in?”
Again a shrug. “Why not?”
“Biting is their only purpose, Damon. Swim and mangle, swim and mangle. It’s what they do!”
“I’ll be fine.” He brushes wet hair off my neck. “I’m not done being your husband already, okay?”
It takes me about forty-five seconds to finally answer, “Okay.”
Amani begins the instructions. He stands in the center of the boat and signals out either side like a flight attendant. Suddenly phrases like “in case of water landing” or “should the plane catch fire” sound downright dandy next to Amani’s list of rules:
I expect a couple of snorkelers to change their minds, but when Amani finishes his directive they happily line up to hop into the waters of disembowelment.
Nervously I hover near the ladder as Damon gives me a wink and eases himself down. There are at least six dorsal fins circling the boat now. As yet, there’s been no flash of fins and teeth as the water bubbles up red . . .
I really shouldn’t have watched all four Jaws movies a few weeks ago.
I watch Damon’s blond head as he works his way down the rope, face in the water. After a few silent minutes, all the snorkelers have moved to their positions on the rope, faces submerged, watching as the sharks weave around them.
They look like a buffet line. A human buffet line just bobbing there. And the sharks are like diners at a Sizzler, circling and wondering, What would I like to sample first?
Amani stands beside me and sips a soda. “You worried?” he asks after a while.
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, keeping my eyes on Damon.
He sounds amused. “You worried he make you a widow already?”
I glare at him sidelong. “Yes, exactly.”
There’s a deep chuckle. “No worry. He be fine.”
Fretfully I wait by the ladder for another ten minutes. Then Amani finally signals the snorkeler closest to Benita to slide back to the ladder.
The return seems much longer than the venturing out. The fins at the surface are dwindling, but Damon is still halfway down the line.
“That was fantastic!” says a girl in a red bikini. She’s probably on a casting list somewhere as “Gorgeous Yacht Girl.” Glancing at me, she asks, “You didn’t get in?”
“Nope,” I respond sharply. Turning to her, I add, “Sorry. Just nervous. My husband is still out there.”
She chuckles and ambles away. “If you hang on this tight, you won’t keep him long!”
Make that “Rude, Gorgeous Yacht Girl.”
Only one shark left near the bobbers, and Damon is nearing the boat. He’s fifth in line to climb aboard. Now he’s fourth . . . now third . . .
Then, abruptly, that last dorsal fin darts close and brushes right up against him.
All I can think is, It’s swarming! It’s swarming! Damon’s fish food!
And then I’m in the water.
I don’t decide to jump; it’s an instinctive reaction. “Damon in danger” equals “Flop into the sea.” Quite suddenly I’m submerged beside the shark.
Floundering in terror, I get my arms around Damon’s neck and tug him toward the boat while shielding his body with mine. Maybe if the shark goes for me instead, Damon can reach the boat while Jaws is snacking on Jack. I’m bracing for teeth to sink into my spine—
Then, as abruptly as I dove, I’m plucked out of the water and hauled up on deck. In my panic I swallowed water, and for several seconds I’m on my side, gagging and coughing it up.
Amani, having dragged me back into the boat, pats my back as I expel water. “You all right, missus?”
I scramble to sit up, gasping, “Damon. Where’s Damon?”
“I’m here.” He’s towing himself up the ladder and drops to his knees in front of me, hands on my face. “Baby, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you bit?” I’m groping frantically around his arms and shoulders. “How bad did it chomp you? Where are you bleeding?”
“Love, I’m not bit. I’m fine.” Damon catches my hands. “I’m not hurt!”
“It’s me, isn’t it?” Horror hits me anew. “I’m in shock and can’t feel it.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I demand, “Are my legs still there? Are my legs still there?”
“Jack, you’re not bit! Open your eyes, love.”
Unconvinced, I peek through one eye. My legs are, in fact, still attached to my body. They’re a little thick in the thighs, but at least they’re present.
“Oh.” My heart hammers in my throat as the adrenaline recedes. “So we’re . . . alive? We’re both fully limbed?”
Damon smiles. “Yes. We’re both fully limbed.”
“How’s that possible?” I look back toward the stern. “I was kicking like a Rockette line. How did we get away from the shark?”
“Why you jump in, missus?” Amani asks.
“I was trying to save my husband.” I look back at Damon. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’re sorry?” Damon gives a startled laugh. “What’re you sorry about? That you tried to save me from a shark? You’re the greatest wife ever.”
“But how did we survive?” I persist.
“Well . . .” Damon shifts awkwardly. “Strictly speaking . . . there was no shark.”
It’s like he’s speaking in Japanese. “What do you mean? The water was full of sharks.”
“It was before,” he says slowly. “But once we all started heading back to the boat, they lost interest. They swam away.”
“But—but—but I saw it!” I bluster. “I saw it dart at you—the fin. The fin darted at you!”
“That’s true.” But he still looks shifty.
“Then what? If it darted at you—”
“Something came close to me.” Damon nods. “And it did have a fin.”
What am I not grasping here? “Then what was it?!”
Damon takes a breath before answering, “A dolphin.”
For almost a full minute I stare at him, not computing. My brow is cranked low. “A dolphin?”
He nods reluctantly. “Yeah.”
Again I look toward the water like maybe he’s confused. “You sure it was a dolphin?”
“Pretty sure.”
“But I saw the sharks circling, and then there was one left, and then . . .” Now I’m remembering. “And then I talked to the hot yacht girl, so I turned away for a minute.”
“The dolphin came up after the sharks left. It probably happened while your back was turned.”
Now, sopping on the deck with Amani and the entire group watching, I’m feeling something new. Pretty sure it’s humiliation.
“Well,” I muse. “This is awkward.”
“No, it isn’t.” Damon’s smiling. “You tried to save me from a shark—”
“I tried to save you from Flipper the friendly dolphin.”
“Hey, don’t be fooled. Behind those adorable smiles, dolphins are . . . vicious.” I groan, and he grins. “If you want, we can tell everyone it was an actual shark.”
I’m still frowning. “A big one?”
“Huge. Come on.” He lifts me to my feet and guides me to a seat. “Let’s get you back to shore, huh? I’ve got a great place picked out for dinner later.”
“You’re trying to distract me with food,” I say as he grabs a towel to dry me off.
“Is it working?”
I shrug. “Maybe.” Then, because everyone’s still staring like I’m a sideshow freak, I add, “As you were, people.”