Once we arranged flights to George Town, Exuma, we set in motion a series of events I can only explain by the full moon rising over Stocking Island. I warn you the stories I am about to share with you are true. Yes, embellished a bit by the fog of Kaliks and Rum but true nonetheless.

It was mid August and my wife, Michele, and I were on our way with friends Tom and Jayne to explore the cays and lagoons that make up Great Exuma. We had been to the Abacos the previous year and had weathered a hurricane while there and felt it was time for a change. Besides, the Abacos though still one of our favorite destinations had become more populated and secluded beaches harder to find. We had heard that there still were places in the Exumas to escape completely and experience the "Bahamas the Way it Use to Be". It's like the Holy Grail, a crusade, a search for truth, the Lost City of Atlantis. According to some, the first explores landed on Long Island, Bahamas. I bet the first thing they heard was, " Man, if you really want to experience The Bahamas the Way it Use to Be" you really need to check out the cays north of here."

I knew from the minute we got bumped off the small commuter out of Miami that this trip was going to be special. Maybe it was the death defying van ride from Miami to Ft. Lauderdale to make our connection the following day or the plane that smelled like they had been transporting cattle prior to picking us up.

We survived the trip to Ft. Lauderdale. We would get our flight the next day with $400.00 worth of extra airfare in our pocket. We were assured our gear would not be sitting out on the airstrip in George Town with out us. We were in good shape. Right!? When the same van driver pulled up the next morning I knew we were caught in some sort crazy "vacation of the strange" vortex and it was just beginning. But remember we were on a quest, our crusade in search of the grail. No one said it would be easy.

As with any good adventure the cast of characters is very important to the story. On this trip we would have enough for a novel. I mentioned the van driver already. Then there was Charlie. That's all I know. A short round man with a friendly worn face approached me with a favor as we waited for the cattle hauler. He needed to get a package to George Town. It was an award or plaque or something. He asked if I would mind taking his package to a gentleman who would meet me in George Town to receive it. The stranger bearing gifts sort of thing always gets my guard up, but he looked like my dad, and I was caught in the vortex and there was no way out except forward so what the hell. I agreed as long as Charlie called ahead to have out house stocked with essential (beer) as the stores would be closed by the time we got in.(Note: this was a trip prior to 911 and all.)

So here I sat with my wife, who until I safely pass this"award" off to whom ever is in George Town, doesn't know me, Jayne scrunching up her face at the smell of the plane, and Tom making mooing noises and explaining to whoever will listen that he will not sit next to the chickens when they get on.

The flight went well, considering. I was able to pass of the "award" to a gentleman who knew my name already. In fact, that was the feeling I got most of this trip. People seemed to already know who we were. I guess that award was special, or maybe it was the fact that all our gear and a cooler arrived a day earlier than we did. We were a little concerned until we were told upon arrival we could pick up our thing at the only opened bar that Sunday. No customs for us. We get our bags checked at the bar. Now this next part I'm not sure about. For some reason our things were put in a deep freezer at this bar. I can see the cooler maybe, but the other things like t-shirts, underwear, and toiletry item probably didn't need to be frozen solid. However, I do appreciate the effort to secure our things.

We rented a car in town. It had an engine, wheels and you could steer it. The scariest thing about the car was that it too smelled like cows. Remember, everything I tell you is absolutely true. The house we rented was perfect. The view was stunning, the beach secluded, and perfect for swimming, snorkeling, and the reefs abundant.

This being lobster season, Tom and I couldn't wait to thaw out our gear and get in the water. It was mid afternoon, and with spears in hand and hopes high that dinner would be fresh lobster and not a frozen can of tuna fish, we set out to hunt bugs. The water was as beautiful as any other island destination we've been to. The reefs were alive with color and sea life.
It was late afternoon, and we worked or way around the rocks and crevices. Tom and I had gotten separated, but I knew we were not far apart, and the beach was in site so we couldn't get lost. It was an effort to get here, but I was falling into island time fast. Then came the sound. Faint at first. It was a low buzz that seemed to be getting louder. I came up and looked around and didn't see anything. I went back down, and there it was again but getting louder. As the sound grew to a level I understood, I realized in a panic that it was a boat at full throttle bearing down on our position. This was a shallow reef infested region, rocks everywhere, low tide, and a low sun.
I knew I couldn't go up for air again because the sound was closing too fast. I found a small cut in the rock with a low sandy bottom and got as flat as I could. I was in 3-4 feet of water. All I could hope for was that what ever was making this sound had a very shallow draft. I laid flat and imagined what it would feel like when the prop debones me as I lay there holding my breath. Or what part of the haul is going to splinter into me as this boat crashes into the rocks. This was not happening! We had just gotten there! No one else was around! Who was this person? Where's Tom?

Then it happened. The sound was deafening. I felt the compression as the boat cut the water over my head. I looked up to face my death as the prop sliced the water within inches of my head. My spear tip rang out with a violent twang as the edge of the prop caught the tip of my spear. I glance up as the corkscrew swirl of water lead off over the top of the reef and into the blue. The sound quickly abated and then silence. I was alive! Intact and alive. I think I was sweating under water. Then another feeling of dread came over me. Tom! If I was alive maybe the worse happened. As I surface all I saw was a fat man with some very young looking females throwing Kalik bottles out the side of the boat screaming down the coast. I turned quickly to find my friend and spotted Tom swim crawling over the rock to see if I was OK. He never was at a loss of words. He had a wit that could slice your gut. Always on. However, at this exact moment we just looked at each other. No laughter, no sound. Just stared. Then with a smirk, "The lobster can wait, I need a drink," Tom said.

"Just one?" I replied.

We made our way back to shore with or nerves frayed and a new sense of our mortality. We were a few hundred yards south of the house. We knew we were lucky and we were still alive and still in paradise. It was an effort to walk through the deep powder white sand.

From the deck of the house that over looked this paradise Michele and Jayne had witnessed the whole event. They were ready to go find this crazy person that almost shredded us. They were yelling at the fat man waving their arms and assumed, as I did, that this outing was going do end in disaster. They continued to express their concern in a nervous flow of descriptions and swear word. They even had a few choice words for us as they inquired as to the reason we had to swim out so far from shore, why we didn't move out of the way, we (Tom and I) had almost ruined the whole vacation and on until they realized we weren't responding and apparently and could see we really didn't need to hear it all at that exact moment.

Let the drinking games begin. Frozen tuna fish never tasted so good. The Kaliks and rum helped. We laughed at and toasted the whole event later that night. As the moon made its way on toward the western sky we passed out with the sound of the trade winds rustling through palms trees.

New day, new outlook, and there were cays to explore. We rented a boat for the week out of George Town at Exuma Dive. As we explored the surrounding cays, rock formations and sandy beaches. We found that the Exumas had so much to offer, and we soon realized that, except for a few Italian tourists, we had the whole place to ourselves. Where was everyone? Could it be we have found the Way the Bahamas Use to be? Or was there a storm approaching we hadn't heard about. We didn't question it too long. We just settled into our buzz of contentment and enjoyed just being.

Our fist stop was the beaches on Stocking Island. We anchored at Club Peace and Plenty's hamburger shack and walked the short path to the Atlantic side. When we reached the shoreline we had to decide which slice of paradise we wanted to taste today. We walked north along the shore past the remains of a failed smugglers attempt of a plane to a tidal area with a sandy bottom and nothing but the four of us to enjoy it.

I remember watching the others Michele, Jayne, and Tom just wiling away the day under the blue sky and thinking to myself that this is the way a vacation was meant to be. There were miles of secluded sand, no crowds, and good friends to share it with. Then it happened! Another human soul had found our beach. But that was ok. There was plenty of room. He could go the opposite direction and we could still have the place ourselves. He looked our way. He looked hard our way. Then he motioned behind him and then we saw it. The Stuckey's Tour Bus had landed. First two then three then a whole crowd of Europeans all standing at the entrance to the trail that led us here. Staring in our direction.

Please go the other way we whispered to ourselves. Go somewhere else. Nope! They headed our way. Ok, there were at least 400 yards between them and us. Surely they wouldn't set up camp right next to us. The 300 yards turned into 200 yards. This was not happening. It was obvious that they traveled in a pack and assumed everyone else did too. 100 yards and closing! Did we mistakenly put up a flag that said, Join us we're lonely? 50 yards and still they came. I guess there are species of humans who school together. "Look for the crowds, they must be right," is the mentality.
Well not ten feet from our bag and towels this very nice family set up camp. We just looked at each other in amazement. They hadn't done anything wrong, and I'm sure they were very nice people just looking for their little piece of paradise too. The last straw was when they looked at the wide expanse of aqua marine water and decided that the best place to swim was apparently right next to us. Really! They swam so close that you had to give that uncomfortable smile of a greeting like the one you give to people packed into an elevator. We left.

Ok, the Exumas are big. We had a boat and the only other people were the Stuckey's Tour Group. We could share the wealth. And for the rest of that week we pretty much did have the place to ourselves. We found lobster bigger than we ever had before. The coral was brilliant. There were the hidden lagoons of Crab Cay, old plantation ruins and fresh water grottos to dive on and no one else but the four of us.

Then we met Kenny of Kenny's Place. Recently opened at the time, Kenny's Place was a one-man operation, well-constructed covered deck of a restaurant at the mouth of the hurricane hole at Stocking Island. It was the perfect setting for cold drinks on a hot afternoon and the best food we have tasted in the Bahamas. Forget fried. Kenny's religion is food. No that's not exactly correct. Kenny's religion is politics. Sort of. Kenny's religion is whatever the conversation is at the moment. Some people are opinionated. Kenny had answers. From the state of US Policies to the state of his neighbor's unfinished shed, Kenny had the plan. His method of cooking everything was simple but genius. Grill everything over flame in an aluminum foil packet with vegetables and seawater and spices. Best fish/conch salad/bloodymarys I've ever tasted.

Somehow all of Kenny's logic revolved around the females of this world. Women were his true passion. Warning, men of weak esteem and confidence should avoid Kenny's Place if they don't want have their manhood pounded like conch meat. In fact his grilled, non-fried menu was based on his studies of not what the men wanted. It was what the women wanted. And he gave it to them. He kept live conch in the lagoon tied together and would invite you to learn how to clean and prepare fresh conch. Of course Michele and Jayne at this time were ready to follow him anywhere so Tom and I thought we had better tag along. Kenny, with a smile, reassured Tom and I all was good and offered the secret to his success. The Johnson of a conch. A few cold Kaliks, the hot sun and Tom and I would eat the cold slug off a rotten apple to keep up with this guy. Let's see viagra in the form of a conch penis. Sounded good at the time.

We have all been to them. Places that have reputations, histories, places they write songs about and you wonder what it was like in the beginning. How did they start, and what gave them the staying power when hundreds of other beach bars open and close? We were lucky enough to witness the birth of an establishment, a true original. Stories will be told and truths stretched at Kenny's place. And as long as they offer up conch sausage, it will go on forever.
We where having the time of our lives.

There had been near death experiences, beach philosophy, beautiful people, and genuine smiles. There were waterspouts. These waterspouts were huge and they appeared every afternoon. There were lobsters sleeping with sharks as if to say," Sure you could spear us but you might wake our friend and he doesn't like to be woken up in the middle of the day." Kenny called us a female organ when we told him we passed on that lobster. I hadn't eaten enough conch willies yet. There were crystal clear skies at night. So clear you could watch the satellites race like clockwork. Sitting on our deck at night, over looking the Elizabeth Harbour I heard what I thought to be a helicopter. We all looked and couldn't see anything. We heard it. The sound was unmistakable and getting louder. Still we couldn't see it. Then, 200 yards in the distance and below our vantage point skimming the water was a helicopter, no running lights, and flying low and slow. Then it disappeared. Smugglers? DEA? RBPF? Lost flight from the Bermuda Triangle? Who knows? But that was the theme for this whole trip. Expect the unexpected and the unexplained.

Like when we followed the recommendation of a popular travel guide to the Bahamas and visit a Restaurant or on the list and we are greeted by a sign pinned on the door in bold print CLOSED blah, blah, blah, RBPF/US DEA, blah, blah, blah . One afternoon on our way back from George Town we passed by an abandoned resort where we watched a tennis match between two local men on courts overgrown by weed. The only part of the net left was the white tape. The paint had long sense faded but the match was close and exciting to watch. Everything about this trip was that way. Perfectly strange but perfectly normal. But nothing we encountered so far on this trip prepared us for what we stumbled upon on Man o War Cay at the south end of Elizabeth Harbour.

All week we had seen this crescent shape stretch of sand in the distance and marked it as a must go explore site. We ask some locals and they mentioned the beach was nice but the real attraction were the Spanish ruins you find if you follow the trail away from the beach. Sounds good to us.
The next morning we made our way to this no name beach. This was a postcard waiting to happen. Just perfect. Now all week we hadn't seen another soul, and today there was a lone run-about anchored quietly with no one around. Local? I know it wasn't the Stuckey's tour bus. It had departed mid week. We still had the place to ourselves except for the other boat. The water was perfectly clear and warm. We played about a bit and then decided to go find the ruins.

At the entrance to the trail you could tell this was probably used as some sort of refueling/ off loading/ covert operation of sorts by the make-shift lean-to, old fire pit, discarded fuel cans and glow sticks. We really thought nothing of it and from the looks of it hadn't been used in some time. Like an old still you find out in the woods. Its glory days had long gone and all that remained were the stories.

The trail began under thick brush then opened to a wide sunny rock- studded road of sorts. It was hot. The trail led up a small incline. We weren't sure were we were going, but based on the past few days getting lost seemed to be a logical outcome of this adventure. I was looking down, watching my step when I heard my wife voice a greeting. I looked up and coming down the trail out of nowhere was a startled gentleman, American, with a very sheepish look on his face. Right behind him a younger girl. Not his wife but maybe his daughter or something. She also had a strange look about her as if we had just stumbled upon a crime scene. She didn't even look up to meet our eyes. Just kept her head down and quickly caught up to the gentleman that, as he past, cautioned us to, "Beware of the natives ahead." We gave the nod of,"Oh sure, not a problem" and they disappeared behind us into the thick brush we just left.

As the road straightened out we all looked at each other asking what that was all about. Michele and Jayne immediately picked up on the age difference of the two and put together the details of an illicit affair of sorts. Just when they had figured out this dangerous liaison, we were hit with the truth. Up the path in the bright sun coming toward us was a sight that to this day I cannot burn from my memory. We tried to be cool and not lose control. But what was walking stumbling toward us defied all reasoning. Coming toward us was the tallest, most naked woman I had ever seen. Don't misunderstand. We've been to nude beaches, topless beaches, and hell even topless bars. But this threw me. When I say naked I mean naked. No shoes on her feet as she tiptoed over the rocks and sharp edges of this limestone trail, no hat on her near baldhead. Yes I mean bald. There may have been a Five o'clock shadow of platinum blond stubble but that was it. Nothing. She had no hair all to speak of. I mean none. Shaved clean. Smooth. None. No hair. No shoes no nothing. Except for this pair of the gaudiest sunglasses you could imagine. They had gold with silver wings and diamond studs. South Beach had nothing on these glasses or this woman.

The trail was small enough that the four of us would have to stop to let her pass and as she came close I did what any polite gentleman would do. I asked for directions to the ruins. Now my wife will tell you that I had not asked for directions my entire life until now. Maybe that is true but what else do you say to a seven foot shaved, naked woman with peroxide blond stubble with bad sunglasses. Of course I asked direction. She was very polite right back. Her and I chatted a bit. Nice weather, beautiful islands blah, blah, blah. Actually I can't remember much of the conversation. It felt like a weight was tied around my head pushing me to look down. It was a test. I could get through this without losing eye contact. I would survive this. Besides, I was already in deep with my wife for even starting a conversation with her. I commented on her interesting sunglasses and she responded,"Oh these little things, blah, blah, blah." Trust me there was nothing little about this woman. Not fat, just nothing little. We said good day and headed in opposite directions.

Nothing was said between the four of us. Well not until we were out of earshot. Then it came. We had enough jokes for the next year. We had oyster jokes, bad hair jokes, tall women joke, tall woman with no hair jokes, boob jokes, big boob jokes and they just kept coming. My side was splitting. And when I mentioned the glasses Tom's only response was,"She had a head?" It didn't stop. I think we did see the ruins but who cares. See one set of ruins you've seen them all. But tall, hairless, naked Miami Beach Amazons wearing bad sunglasses in the middle of nowhere come along once in a lifetime. We figured that the relationship of those three went something like this: Divorced Dad, teenage daughter, and Dad’s embarrassing mid life crisis.

What a day. As we made our way back to Elizabeth harbour and George Town everything was right with the world. We had had a full day of sun, snorkeling, exploring, and just plain getting away from it all. Content. I was at the helm of our small rental boat just smiling from the inside. We had done it. We had had the vacation of a lifetime and a day left. Tom sat on the bow looking forward with a beer in his hand. Jayne and Michele where enjoying the last few pages of their vacation reads and I was just taking it all in and drifting into the rhythm of the small outboard when a thought came to me. Unclear at first, but I knew I needed to be concerned about something. I knew everyone was one board and safe. I had my wallet. There was enough fuel to get back. But there was something not right. As the sun set over George Town I spotted a barrel in the water. I knew this meant something but what. I kept staring as the motor drummed on. The barrel was telling me something but what. Like the spark from a rock that meant fire it hit me. I was out of the channel. I was on the wrong side of the barrel. In about three second we were about to hit and hit hard. I threw the wheel to the right and throttled back fast. Tom nearly flew out. Jayne bounce on the deck and Michele fell screaming on top of her. The boat lurched to a stop and was quiet. They all looked at me as if I had lost my mind. They followed my eyes to the side of the boat. They then saw what I was looking at in horror. We had come within inches of ruining the perfect day. We had cheated death for the third time. The first on the taxi ride from Miami as the driver fell asleep at the wheel on 95 North. The second time when the fat man tried run us over and now at the entrance of the Harbour. You could see the scars on the rock from past victims. Blue and green and red and white scrapes as hulls met the immovable force. The rock was a crayon box of colored patches of past mistakes. They told the story of past days gone badly, fast. We would not leave our mark this time.

The Moon over Exuma that night was as full as ever. It lit the night with a strange daylight. We walked the beach in front of the house under that moon’s light. We finished the Kaliks and rum and toasted to friendships and great adventures under that moon. The people of the Exumas were as friendly as any other we had met. The Exuma women were exceptionally beautiful. Very striking and very sweet. We ate shark steak given to us by a couple of local fisherman in Rolleville. Told of secret fishing holes and given the secret to great sex. I guess they figured we would never survive to tell any one else their secrets.

We hated turning in the boat that last day. We said our good-byes to our new friends. We were welcomed back anytime. And the ride to the airport was quiet but peaceful. We were sure we'd be back. Then as if to stay in character, the Exumas had one last story to give us. We got comfortable in our seats on the weekly commuter flight as a few locals boarded to visit family in the South Florida. As the attendant began to close the door to the plane there came yell from the gate. A young man, blond, American, accompanied by a gate attendant came running toward the plane. After a few hurried words at the door to the plane and a shuffling of papers the attendant dropped the stairs and allowed the young man to board. He was not headed back to Miami after just arriving. It seems he was allowed to not only board the wrong plane but was allowed to travel to the wrong country. He was very good-natured about it. What else can you do when you're caught under an Exuma Moon?

~Paul La Motte~