Charting the Unknown Read online

  Our Survivor Hosts were gracious. They gave us an extended tour of camp and their lean-to as well as taking us a short distance to where their “outhouse” was conveniently located down wind and on the other side of a hill from their camp. With Stefan's jackknife they had pared some long sticks to use for roasting the hot dogs and marshmallows. With the matches, for which they were now grateful, we made short work of starting a fire and getting supper prepared.

  By nightfall the fire was roaring. Mike and Stefan were attempting to juggle hot coals, Lauren was strumming her guitar, and I was leaning against our picnic backpack close to the fire, listening. In the distance I heard the hum of a dinghy motor and it wasn't long before Nick and Alice showed up with popcorn and wine. The four of us went down the beach to help them pull their dinghy ashore, shaking hands, and saying hello. We made our way to the fire, where we settled down to swap stories.

  Nick was a retired professional skateboarder. Who knew that skateboarding had been around long enough to have retirees? I wondered to myself silently. Heavily tattooed, in baggy shorts, with shaggy hair sticking out from under his offset baseball cap, he looked the part. He was lanky, thin, and tan, and sort of swaggered when he walked. I could tell right away that Stefan thought he was the coolest. His wife, Alice, was blonde, trim, a massage therapist with an easygoing, lighthearted way about her. Over s'mores and popcorn they told us that in the summer they farmed their land in Alaska and sold their organic fruits and vegetables to local markets. Nick hunted moose and deer; the meat they mainly lived on, although they kept chickens as well. Sometimes, Alice said, there were so many salmon running upstream not far from their property, that she would simply hike down in the morning with a net and scoop up a four pounder for dinner.

  While holidaying in Florida several years ago, they found their 32-foot sailboat, in a dilapidated state, and purchased it on the spot for just under $5,000. Before the cold Alaskan winter set in, they shut down their farm and drove their jeep ever southeast, all the way to Daytona Beach, where they began to refit their boat. This was their second winter and spring in the Bahamas. They had anchored in this very spot a year ago. Alice asked me how our provisions were holding out. I told her we were just beginning our journey, so were well stocked. She said kindly, “Well, if you need any meat I've got a bunch of canned moose. You would be welcome to have some.”

  When the stories of building the inside of boats, malfunctioning water makers, and large seas had dwindled along with our fire and the wine, we said good night and left Lauren and Stefan to sleep on the beach in their lean-to. As Mike and I pulled away in the dinghy, I could see the beams from their flashlights bobbing along the shoreline, traveling the short distance to their lean-to which I could barely make out in the moonlight. By the time I reached Chrysalis and turned back toward the beach, their lights had gone out.

  The next morning, Mike and I made our way to the beach to see how the Survivors had fared. It had been a good night, they said, but a few things had happened. The wind had kicked up and blown a few of the palm fronds off their roof, causing a bit of a ruckus. The mosquitoes had been fierce. Stefan had to use “the facilities” during the night and made this comment, “Boy, is it dark in the middle of the night on an uninhabited island!”

  Adding to the description, Lauren said, “After you guys left last night, Stef and I looked at the stars for awhile, and then I said good night and tried to get to sleep, but the island was so noisy!”

  “What kind of noises?” I asked, curious.

  “Insects whizzing by. Leaves and branches rustling or falling down in the wind. It was kind of creepy at first, but then I realized it was just the island settling down to sleep. After that I slept just fine. When I woke up, everything was quiet.”

  Packing up her water bottle, flashlight, and guitar she continued, smiling, “I don't see what the big deal is. I definitely could go on the TV show Survivor with no problems at all.”

  Soon after we had boarded Chrysalis, Nick and Alice came by and offered to show us a profitable spear fishing hole. Mike and the kids were thrilled. Although we had brought equipment, a couple of “Hawaiian Slings,” we had yet to try them out. I do enjoy snorkeling, but I had no desire to spear fish, so I told the crew to go ahead without me. Plus, the thought of a little alone time was more than a little appealing. From the cockpit, I watched the five of them head across the bay and tie up to some rocks. Several hours later they returned. Nick had caught a lobster, but my crew was empty-handed. Evidently, it took some practice.

  Sitting around the fire the night before, Nick had mentioned that at the gate to their farm in Alaska, they had a mailbox with the words inscribed, “Time stops here.” Whenever they had guests over, they warned them that upon their arrival they would be expected to leave their watches in the mailbox. “Our culture's addiction to knowing the time is unfortunate,” Nick had said in between mouthfuls of popcorn. “If you believe in an afterlife at all, then we are timeless beings and should act as such. Western Civ needs to take a few breaths and slow down,” he continued.

  At this, Mike had glanced in my direction with a knowing look.

  Several weeks before coming to the Bahamas, Mike misplaced his watch. It was an expensive one, the last reminder, along with a few neckties, of his previous life working in an office. Since beginning the live-aboard lifestyle, I often thought its black and gold shiny face and band looked a little funny worn with shorts and a t-shirt. Although I was distraught by its loss, Mike released it with little fanfare. Both kids were sporadic watch wearers to begin with, and it wasn't long before their drugstore watches disappeared into a nook or a cranny never to be heard from again. It was a good thing, I thought, that I still had my watch.

  Then one day my three crewmates sat me down in the pilothouse.

  “This is an intervention,” Lauren said gravely.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, wide-eyed. Innocent.

  Mike said gently, concerned, “We have come to the conclusion that you have an addiction.”

  I thought they had finally realized that my love of chocolate might be a problem bordering on addiction, but if they thought I was going off chocolate cold turkey, they had another think coming. Besides, I could stop eating it anytime I wanted to.

  Instead, Mike continued, “We think you are addicted to knowing what time it is so you can schedule your day, and ours by extension. Your watch is enabling you to make to-do lists and we think this is criminal here in the Bahamas. One of the reasons we are living on a boat is to experience a little more freedom from conventional restraints. We want you to hand over the wristwatch.”

  “You can't be serious?” I was sure this was some kind of joke. I backed away and covered my watch with my opposite hand. This was ridiculous.

  “Hand it over, Mom, then step slowly away, and no one gets hurt,” Stefan held out his hand.

  “Fine.” I said while unclasping my watch and plopping it into Stefan's hand as if I didn't care. “You guys will see. Giving up this watch will be no problem.” Then I reminded Stefan that the watch was expensive and to please put it in a safe place.

  I started out just fine, but a couple hours later I caught myself in the act of raising my left arm to check the hour and was greeted instead by a naked wrist. I immediately felt disoriented. Lost. How was I supposed to know when it was lunchtime? How could I be expected to schedule school and work with no watch? I wandered aimlessly among the hours unable to “place” myself in the day. I grew fidgety, cranky, and sweaty. I paced the rail like a tiger. I shielded my eyes with my hand and looked up at the sun's place in the sky hoping for discernment. Out of habit, I kept asking Mike and the kids what time it was, until they got frustrated with me.

  “For the last time, Mom, we don't know and we don't care! We're on island time, mon!” they said.

  At the dinner table one night, I stood and confessed, “Hello, my name is Kim Petersen, and I'm addicted to knowing the time.” They all patted me on the back an
d told me they accepted and loved me even though I had lots of quirks and imperfections. Oh, the joys of community.

  As I thought about it later on, I realized there were deeper issues surrounding my task oriented compulsions, and that I placed a great deal of my self-worth in what I accomplished during the course of a day. Letting go of my watch, painful as it was initially, reminded me of my value simply as a human being, not solely for accomplishing a to-do list.

  It took a couple of weeks to get used to the feeling of being adrift in my day, but gradually, I started to feel myself a part of the day as a whole instead of carved out pieces of 60-minute intervals. The hours seeped into each other. When I woke up I had breakfast and worked. I played and read in the afternoon. When the sun went down, we ate dinner. Returning from an afternoon of snorkeling, I would glance at the battery-operated clock in the galley that had recently been restored to me as a gift for good behavior. It made no difference if it was 4 o'clock or 7 o'clock

  About a month later, Stefan found Mike's wristwatch buried under papers in an office drawer. Mike seemed genuinely glad to have it returned and thanked Stefan profusely, but I noticed the timepiece ended up in his night table drawer. Eventually, my watch was returned to me, but it joined Mike's in the same drawer.

  29

  The geography of the Bahamas, the shallow waters and numerous protected harbors scattered throughout nearly 700 islands, made it attractive to past pirates who could loot passing merchant ships and disappear into its complicated waters. Even in the early days of Discovery, its location in a burgeoning shipping lane led to the downfall of many Spanish and English boats on their way to and from the New World. These ships were plundered by famous marauders such as Henry Morgan, Blackbeard, and Anne Bonney. Henry Morgan, whose treasure was never found, hid out in the dangerous reefs off Andros. Captain Kidd preferred Kidd Cove in Elizabeth Harbour, Exuma. By 1700, pirates essentially ruled Nassau and had driven out most of its law-abiding citizens, who moved on to Great Exuma. Edward Teach, otherwise known as Blackbeard, took up residence in Fort Nassau until the British Navy had enough in 1718 and kicked him out.

  Rapacious behavior was not limited to privateers and pirates. In the Abacos, pirates settled and joined forces with a growing population of British settlers. Like the Siren daughters of the Greek sea god Phorcys who lured sailors to death with their lovely song, from the shore at night these islanders would see the lights of a passing ship and set up lanterns in the shallows as if to direct the ship to safety. The ship would follow the lights, run aground or bash into the rocks, and the looting would commence with often murderous results.

  Back on land I used to watch with interest a television show called Treasure Seekers. Each episode started with a story of intrigue. A pirate treasure that had been buried on a long-forgotten island. A recounting of Egyptian thieves losing stolen burial goods. Ancient civilizations booby-trapping their wealth in some hard-to-reach canyon. Sometimes fortunes were unexpectedly lost in storms at sea or thrown out of car windows with the cops hot on their tails.

  One episode featured a middle-aged man who had it on good authority that bank robbers had buried their loot somewhere on an acre of land running along a stretch of highway near his home. He stood, sweaty, dirty and rumpled, leaning on a shovel in front of a field full of craters he had dug. He said shaking his head, “Dag nab it, it's got to be around here somewhere. I won't quit until I find it.” Later on in the episode, the same guy looked intently into the camera and made this remark, “You know what will happen? If I don't find this treasure, one day, long after I'm gone, some young kid will kick over a rock and find it with no work, time, or money. That's just the way life works.”

  The modern-day treasure hunter comes equipped with a water bottle, cell phone, and the latest map printed off the Internet. If you do not have access to a 15 million dollar yacht equipped with sonar or drilling equipment, you might at least be able to purchase a metal detector. With it you can explore some open-ended plotline in hopes of providing a financially lucrative denouement. Every now and again, one of your treasure-hunting colleagues will happen to find what they were looking for and end up on the front page of the newspaper. Their picture, in the midst of crumbling pottery and crusty coins, will inspire you to invest your last bit of savings on a treasure map you buy off some shady character in an old tavern. He will no doubt assure you of its authenticity.

  Sensing my interest, Mike got me a metal detector the Christmas before we moved aboard. I tried it out on a stretch of Florida coastline. I waved it slowly back and forth a few inches over the small dunes of sand, stopping to dig at the appropriate sound in my earphones. Hearing those beeps and pushing the sand around was invigorating, but I only dug up loose change and several bottle caps. With dreams of discovering a more substantial buried treasure, I had high hopes for the deserted islands of the Bahamas.

  Pirates were known to frequent the protected harbor of Royal Island, our next destination, originally named Real Island for the Spanish silver coin. This, I thought, might serve me well as a place to use my metal detector. After a little over a week at Devils Cay, we hauled up the anchor, waved to Nick and Alice, and made our way to Royal Island Harbour. Here, we joined a few other anchored sailboats in the wide bay.

  Spurred on by thoughts of buried treasure, the four of us combed the beaches, taking turns with the metal detector. We became adept at recognizing the distinctive “beeping” noise indicating a mystery. We would stop and dig around excitedly, but except for a few odd shaped pieces of metal we found no coins and no priceless jewelry. When I was busy with chores or work, the kids took the metal detector to the island and tried to work systematically inland, but the ground proved to be rocky and in the end we abandoned the hope of striking it rich. Eventually, the metal detector ended up in storage. As so often happens, we moved on to activities whose rewards were more immediate, like the ruins of a 1930s hotel on top of the hill.

  My cruising guide said little about the hotel, except that it had thrived in the 30's and then, perhaps due to the economic depression, it had been abandoned. There were rumors that a few famous people, entertainers and politicians, had stayed in the hotel, but I could find nothing to confirm this. One morning the four of us landed on Royal Island, tied up Crabcakes, and pushed our way through an overgrown stone footpath. Along with our own animated voices the air was full of the sound of chirping birds. After a while, we emerged into a clearing and found the crumbling remains of several coral and wood buildings whose roofs were missing or only relatively intact. Carefully walking through them, we identified several bedrooms, one with a rusty metal bed frame, and a bathroom with patches of blue and white tile still on the floor.

  Continuing down a roofless corridor, we entered what appeared to be a spacious dining hall complete with coral fireplace and attached to that, a kitchen whose cupboards had long since been emptied. Breaking the silence, I said, “I wonder what kind of food they served here?” my voice echoing strangely across the open expanse. Climbing a short, stone, stairway, testing the stairs as we went, we emerged onto a broad coral-hewn deck overlooking the north part of the island from which we could view a picturesque teal sea. At the end of the deck, the curved remains of a bar could be seen. I tried to imagine folks with martinis sitting on deck chairs listening to a Benny Goodman record. I wondered where they were now.

  Up ahead of me I heard Stefan say to Lauren, “I wonder who laid the tile in that bathroom back there. Just think, it was all fresh and new one day.”

  “Yeah, and who made the meals in this kitchen, and who served them to the guests in the dining room? And who WERE the guests anyway, and where did they come from? How did they get here? And where are they now?” Lauren was running her fingertips along the top edge of the bar.

  “I wonder if there were any kids that came whether they liked the lizards here on the island like I do,” Stefan said, eyeing a small lizard climbing up the wall and slowly approaching in an attempt to capture it. He lung
ed, but the lizard was much faster and escaped into a crevice.

  “Don't you wonder what the story is behind this place? Mom said she couldn't find out much on the Internet. Maybe we'll never know…”

  “Maybe some people, way into the future, will walk through our boat or our old house and wonder the same thing about us,” Stefan mused.

  As we walked back to the dinghy, Lauren and Stefan forged the trail ahead of me. The moment of contemplation had passed and they were hip checking each other, trying to make their sibling crash into the bushes. When they tired of this, they attempted to kick each other's butts while walking side by side, or step on each other's heels. They pulled ahead of me and I lost sight of them through the dense, island growth. Every once in awhile, I would hear their laughter ring out from somewhere up ahead, and I would smile to myself.

  I had come to Royal Island hoping to find buried treasure, cashing in on some long forgotten hoard with my metal detector. And although I had been disappointed not to unearth anything of cash value, that little voice of wisdom in my head was reminding me that feelings of monetary success would pale in comparison to the richness I felt walking down this deserted path, listening to the ruminations and giggles of two teenagers who had moved aboard Chrysalis as strangers but had, out of necessity and convenience, become the best of friends.

  The day after exploring the hotel, we moved on from Royal Island. We anchored briefly in the small town of Spanish Wells and the lovely New England village of Dunmore Town on Harbour Island before journeying north to anchor in the Abacos. From our Alaskan friend, Nick, we had learned this was a prime fishing, diving, and snorkeling area.

  When school was finished for the day, Stefan spent hours swimming around the boat hunting schools of small fish with his Hawaiian sling, until one day his shouts of excitement brought us all to the stern. There on the end of his spear wriggled a tiny fish no bigger than 4 inches long. We all cheered. With the youngest crewmember's success, the bar was set. Mike, Lauren, and Stefan began taking the dinghy to offshore reefs. They practiced their accuracy. Sometimes I went with them to snorkel, but more often than not, I stayed on Chrysalis to write. Late in the afternoon, I would hear the hum of the dinghy, and I would meet them on the swim platform to help them tie up. They would be eager to show me the day's catch. Regularly there were five or six different varieties of fish, often more. We would look up the ones that were unfamiliar in our Florida and Bahama's Fishing Guide. We began to recognize favorites. The hogfish, reddish in color with the long sloping snout, was a prize. The homely looking grouper and the elusive, quick-moving snappers were plentiful, a challenge to spear, and always delicious.