Hooper’s Bay -- a long arc of w
hite sand, framed in green palms and sea grape, lapped by crystalline aquamarine waves, empty save for green turtles and us – Ann, Jan, Tom and I. Balmy air – all a balm to body and spirit.
In truth, this is being written from Seattle, for I so easily had succumbed to Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s admonition: “The beach is not the place to work; to read, write, or think.” All I had gotten on paper was “Dateline: Hooper’s Bay, Great Exuma, The Bahamas.”
The Bahamas lie amidst the bajamar, the Spanish called it, the shallow sea. The land so stingy, the sea so fruitful.
Poor Bahamas. Its sine wave history of exploitation, booms and busts, exploiters moving on but always the blacks left in patient struggle to survive. The brown natives, the Lucayans, did not survive, driven into extinction by 1520 through Columbus’ gifts of servitud
e and desease. Came 17th Century seagoing entrepreneurs -- privateers, in war, pirates in peace -- who berthed in Nassau until the Crown drove them away after the Spanish wars. Then the Loyalist Tory’s taking refuge from the revolution of ‘76, bringing cotton and slaves. The plantations were wiped out by 1820 – the “worm” and the thin soil. The planters left, their slaves left behind. Next the boom of Civil War blockade running, with cotton transshipped to the mills of Britain for gunpowder and manufactures returned. The shallow draft, beamy Bahama smacks ideal for running blockades and landing in Confederate coastal estuaries. The peace of Appomatox killed that boom. Then wrecking and salvage – gifts from the sea -- until the era of steam and better navigation. But along came Prohibition, and bootlegging via Bahama smacks, until repeal ended that too. Today? Tourism and tax havens … and always the sea.
I was last there ’68. Paradise Island was Hog Island then. Lyndon Pindling had just become PM, the 1st black PM. The rush of black power, the echos of Carmichael and Malcolm X made for an uncomfortably self-conscious visit.
This trip was so different, as were the Exuma locals. Conservative, deeply religious, patient. Not hostile to touring white visitors, but with a reserve that makes one self-conscious in another way, that makes me wonder whether they accept my respect or suspect me of
insincere condescension. And which of us is the exploiter now?
We watched the National Family Islands Regatta, where islanders r
ace those colorful smacks. We bonefished with Garth, who could see fish afar that we did not see until almost landing them. We walked the beaches and ate conch and drank rum and accepted the peace of the shore.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh said it best:
“The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach — waiting for a gift from the sea.”
hite sand, framed in green palms and sea grape, lapped by crystalline aquamarine waves, empty save for green turtles and us – Ann, Jan, Tom and I. Balmy air – all a balm to body and spirit.In truth, this is being written from Seattle, for I so easily had succumbed to Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s admonition: “The beach is not the place to work; to read, write, or think.” All I had gotten on paper was “Dateline: Hooper’s Bay, Great Exuma, The Bahamas.”
The Bahamas lie amidst the bajamar, the Spanish called it, the shallow sea. The land so stingy, the sea so fruitful.
Poor Bahamas. Its sine wave history of exploitation, booms and busts, exploiters moving on but always the blacks left in patient struggle to survive. The brown natives, the Lucayans, did not survive, driven into extinction by 1520 through Columbus’ gifts of servitud
e and desease. Came 17th Century seagoing entrepreneurs -- privateers, in war, pirates in peace -- who berthed in Nassau until the Crown drove them away after the Spanish wars. Then the Loyalist Tory’s taking refuge from the revolution of ‘76, bringing cotton and slaves. The plantations were wiped out by 1820 – the “worm” and the thin soil. The planters left, their slaves left behind. Next the boom of Civil War blockade running, with cotton transshipped to the mills of Britain for gunpowder and manufactures returned. The shallow draft, beamy Bahama smacks ideal for running blockades and landing in Confederate coastal estuaries. The peace of Appomatox killed that boom. Then wrecking and salvage – gifts from the sea -- until the era of steam and better navigation. But along came Prohibition, and bootlegging via Bahama smacks, until repeal ended that too. Today? Tourism and tax havens … and always the sea.I was last there ’68. Paradise Island was Hog Island then. Lyndon Pindling had just become PM, the 1st black PM. The rush of black power, the echos of Carmichael and Malcolm X made for an uncomfortably self-conscious visit.
This trip was so different, as were the Exuma locals. Conservative, deeply religious, patient. Not hostile to touring white visitors, but with a reserve that makes one self-conscious in another way, that makes me wonder whether they accept my respect or suspect me of
insincere condescension. And which of us is the exploiter now?We watched the National Family Islands Regatta, where islanders r
ace those colorful smacks. We bonefished with Garth, who could see fish afar that we did not see until almost landing them. We walked the beaches and ate conch and drank rum and accepted the peace of the shore.Anne Morrow Lindbergh said it best:
“The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach — waiting for a gift from the sea.”
Ah, reading on the beach. It seems, to me, almost oxymoronic. I once decided I would read Michener's "Hawaii" while on the island of Kauai. Of course, each day at the beach begins with full immersion - in the water, not in a book. I'd settle into my beach chair, open "Hawaii", and have it in my hands long enough to get the edges wet. Back to the water. Or, stare at the waves, or the clouds, or the palm trees, or...
ReplyDeleteBy the second day I had it figured out. I was in Hawaii. I could read Hawaii at home, in those various places we sit and read. I got a decent start on the flight home, but finish it at home is exactly what I did.
I look forward to not reading in the Bahamas some day.