Of beaches, boats and blarney in the Bahamas

A strong current is sweeping through the grotto, and Tim and I allow it to carry us toward the far side. I duck my head under the surface and spot a large nurse shark resting on the bottom. When I tell Tim, he immediately upends and dives in the general direction, eventually finding the correct dark shape. The shark stays motionless, tolerating a near-sighted inspection from no more than two feet away. Tim comes back up grinning and then we both swim back down, past the patient fish and through a glimmering blue passageway that leads us back out to open water. We emerge on the seaward side of Thunderball and decide to swim around the outside to get back to the boat. As we come around a corner of the islet, in water so shallow that our knees are scraping bottom, we suddenly find ourselves in a whirlpool of strong current. Caught in the swirling water with us are thousands and thousands of thimble jellyfish, a tornado of oversized red peppercorns with stubby stinging tentacles. With no way to go under them and not wanting to swim all the way back, our only option is to keep going. I feel a few electric pulses as the jellies bounce off my cheeks and neck, but it’s not bad. Beside me, Tim powers full speed ahead like a battleship, parting the thimbles with his face and even blowing a few out of his snorkel like cannonballs.

Back at the house, after a dinner of red snapper so fresh that it deserves a slap, we mix politics and Irish whiskey until both party distinctions and our minds begin to blur. We call it an early night at 2 a.m., but I wake up a couple hours later scratching my face. In the harsh light of the bathroom, my head looks like it was used for killer bee target practice. It’s a little late to learn that I’m allergic to thimble jellyfish.

Bob Friel

The next morning, after breakfasting on bacon and Benadryl, I feel good enough to jump back in the boat for a trip up to the Exuma Cays Land and Sea Park. The other guys are fine, apparently protected from stings by the 99-cent-per-gallon suntan goop they’d all frosted themselves with. At the park, we meet Bahamian Ray Darville, the head ranger who, back when the area was first declared a strict no-take zone, was forced to become a seagoing Wyatt Earp, literally battling — knife fights, high-speed chases, boat rammings — those locals who refused to respect the regulations. A man characterized by an economy of words and a big blade on his hip, Ray climbs down from a tall scaffolding he’s using to erect what he claims is a new radio tower but knowing his history could be a gallows for poachers, to grunt a greeting and show us around the park headquarters and visitor’s center. After the tour, we climb back aboard and run south to Staniel Cay, which, with its 100 residents, is the major population center in this part of the Exumas.

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