Abaco Arrival

At about 4 p.m., we drew close to an unprepossessing bit of land fronted by a long stretch of white sandy beach. A strip of scrubby greenery separated the beach from a row of low houses. Extending from the beach were two piers, one sporting a fuel station. We sailed in and docked at that one—Lightbourn’s Marina according to the sign on the dock, Lightbourne’s Marina according to the one by the beach.

Then we waited.

A car drove by. We were examined. The car drove away.

We walked on the beach and gathered an impressive array of sand fly bites. We made friends with a couple of local dogs. We looked at a conch shell. We walked back to Django. We waited.

A big young man appeared and strolled out along the dock. He hailed us warmly and told us his dad ran the place but he was at the airport. He’d be back in about half an hour. We waited. We swam and snorkelled. We waited. Finally, a slim older man walked down the pier and explained he’d been at the airport, 60 miles away. He provided us with water, fuel and (bless him) ice. He was soft spoken but happy to chat. He pondered where we should moor and said he worried that “that wind might freshen…you want to be over on the lee side of the government dock.”

I asked him about his name. Did he spell it with or without the ‘e’ at the end? “Oh, I don’t use that too much,” he said. “It’s for fancy folk.”

Our commerce ended, thanks, money and pleasantries exchanged, we headed to the other dock where WW attempted a stern docking. A man and boy were fishing jack from the pier. They watched with interest as Django approached and backed, approached and backed. Frisha at the bow and I at the stern stood by with lines, Whit was ready to jump ashore, take our lines, and make her fast. The breeze would push us out of range each time we were almost there. Finally Whit asked for a hand from the two on the dock. Both man and boy said “sure”. Frisha heaved her line. A miss. The boy came back and I got a line to him, then he stood there, unmoving, holding it. We gesticulated wildly while he leaned back on the line, prepared to pull in all 10,000 pounds of Django, against the wind. The man ran back and showed him how to snug it on a bollard. Frisha heaved her line. A miss. Third try lucky, we were docked.

The two went back to fishing. A girl walked onto the pier. The boy turned, saw her and shouted, “Where you was?” She laughed and came out to watch the fishing and examine us. Every so often a car would drive to the end of the pier, take a look, and back off again. Later we gave the boy and man a couple of soft drinks, the girl had gone. I asked if she were the boy’s sister. His godsister, I was told.