Bonding in the Bahamas

“Look at that stunning red tree in bloom. What kind is that?”

“Have you ever seen water that color? That blue?”

“He was a mama’s boy. I was so glad when you two broke up. You were way too good for him. Thank goodness you didn’t marry him.”

“I really needed this.”

“Look at the way the sand shifts from pink to purple when the tide comes up. It’s gorgeous.”

“Can we stay another week?”

“Being with you guys is the best!”

“Who ate my Key lime tart?”

Afternoons found us sprawled on the veranda of the Grapevine. We watched kids fishing off the dock out front, and it made us miss our own. Day by day we all fell in love with Briland (run “Harbour” and “Island” together and you get the nickname). Some evenings we dressed to dine out among the beautiful people — one night at the renowned Landing, where local grouper in Thai red curry sauce was a big hit. Another night we set a lovely table back at the Grapevine, lit candles and sat barefoot, eating one of Carolyn’s famous pasta dishes.

Just so we couldn’t be accused of only talking, eating and drinking, one afternoon we climbed aboard a snorkel boat for a trip to the Devil’s Backbone, a long reef littered with shipwrecks.

“What about sharks?” Margo asked as we were about to jump in. I laughed, but she didn’t.

Zach Stovall / CT&L Abaco Beach Resort offers a beachy base for boaters, fishermen and divers.

“I’ll put you out on the side of the boat with the vegetarian sharks. And we’ll put her on the meat-eaters' side,” our guide deadpanned, pointing to me. This time everyone laughed.

Margo probably would have been happier hanging back at Sip Sip, but everyone took the plunge. The colorful underwater scene teemed with sea life, but it’s tough to talk with a snorkel in your mouth, so the girls were in and out pretty fast.

On our final evening, realizing the precious time was coming to an end, we climbed on the golf cart for one last joy ride and sunset on the beach. Down past Fisherman’s Dock and the conch shacks on Bay Street, we ended up on Girls Bank — site of a lone tree standing out on the flats, well known as a location for fashion shoots. We waded, chatted and shared cold Kaliks. Just after the sun dropped below the horizon, the afterglow shifted through a palette of pink, orange and purple — all reflected on the shallow water covering the sand. For the first time all week, nobody needed to say a word.

Blood, Sweat and Beers
Words of encouragement rained down from the peanut gallery.

“Bob, you okay down there? With all the grunting, it sounds like either a pig farm or a porno movie.”

“Hey, it’s getting really hot up here in the shade. Grab me a Kalik out of the cooler if you’re not busy.”

Zach Stovall / CT&L A sunset stroll on Girls Bank.

Actually, I was a little busy — 30 minutes into a battle with an extremely miffed blue marlin about twice my size. It was 4 o’clock on a Bahamian August afternoon. Ninety-five degrees, no breeze and the sun beating on my head like a blacksmith. Using heavy big-game gear to fight a billfish is akin to holding a broomstick at arm’s length with a 30-pound weight dangling from the far end. After 10 minutes, all pretense that it’s not a physical strain goes overboard. After 20 minutes, your face contorts into the heart-attack red, jowl-shuddering, snot-blowing grimace of a constipated lumberjack.

It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t matter — it was only us guys out there.

“Can we wrap this up already?” came another hoot from on high. “My arm’s getting tired holding up the camera.”

“Yo, Bob, are you crying? I thought I just heard a little girl weep.”

Arrayed above me, on the boat’s flying bridge, were my uncle Frank, cousin Tim and a clairvoyant dog wearing mirrored sunglasses. My dad was down on the deck behind me, tasked with driving the fighting chair, steering it so I always faced the fish as it tore line off the reel. Apparently, though, he thought he was working at a barber shop and wanted to make small talk.   

“Hey, this fight is just like that Hemingway story ...” he said.

I really couldn’t spare the breath to respond, but I’m genetically programmed to never pass up an argument.