An Airplane, Rum Punch and Scorched Conch - A Love Story
It is probably worth stating once again, this is a work of partial reality based upon fiction, nothing more, nothing less, it’s a story. Some of it truth, some of it not, in a mix mash of time and space, and then there are the run on sentences, read at your own risk.
The Bahamians like to say, “yeah man”, not to be confused with the Jamaican version, “yeah mon”, it has become part of your vernacular, probably forever, it just says so much with so little, the words move over your lips as you climb into the front passenger seat of your friends plane, riding shotgun, those words are your subtle approval of how cool this is, you can’t help yourself, the plane, a single engine turbo prop beauty, you are leaving Georgetown headed for Deadman’s Cay, you put the noise canceling headset on, listening to your friend and pilot state his intention to air traffic control, electronics and gadgets litter the dashboard in front of you, its a confusing mess, glad its not your responsibility, its warm in here, it’s hot in fact, your first feel of the Caribbean sun in about a year, its nice, warms the soul, after a short wait the plane navigates to the the end of the runway, makes a quick turn and straightens up all in one smooth motion, and just as quickly the throttle is down, you pick up speed, it is a bumpy ride headed down the runway, the wheels lift up, the ride smooths out like soft butter, nothing like the feel of riding in a small plane, excitement, you quickly raise up over the thick green bush that covers the island, filled with poison wood and cats claw, both named so for reasons you can probably imagine, but no worry in this moment, terrestrial concerns, a story for another day. Your eyes quickly shift to the magical turquoise water and creamy white sand that lays in front of you, gentle Caribbean waves rolling in over the silky smooth beaches, the meandering sand bars intermixed with flowing shades of blue water, a complex tapestry of mind altering visuals, a thing of art, a thing of beauty, you find yourself overflowing with wonder and abundance.
Traveling via a small plane in the Bahamas is the stuff of magic and adventure, and you know it, as the island disappears behind you, to your front it’s only dark blue open ocean now, thoughts of Columbian drug runners, with their airplanes and private islands, Norman’s Cay, even the pirates that sailed and used this complex landscape to loot and plunder, then hideout in its seemingly endless cays and islands. The drug running, still of present concern, pirates not so much, as evidenced by the occasional U.S Coast Guard helicopter operations, thoughts of sunken treasure, filled with gold and jewels, giant duffle bag finds of Columbian cocaine, and Jamaican sticky icky, those are the tall tales you hear, some of which are true, some of which are just that, tall tales, but it is all part of the intriguing energy that exists here, in that brief moment you can think no place you would rather be.
You’re day dreaming again, this time about the villa you have rented, right on the beach for six weeks, you think about morning swims, and afternoon strolls on the beach, it might as well be your own private beach, as rarely another soul is seen, the ocean breeze dries your hair, which seems to remain ever crunchy from its regular dose of salt and sun, seemingly bleaching out in front of your eyes, the sun warms your face, what a great place to be for the winter you think to yourself, your feet smooth and soft from the daily dose of sand and water, yet the bottoms hardened from being barefoot on the regular. Barefoot is the Bahamian way, you have the scars to prove it, hard earned, you can smell the ocean, wondering if the villa has a decent grill, a new grilled Wahoo salad dish is on the menu, along with Conch Ceviche, if you can locate some cilantro on the island that is, you are sure you can get your hands on some Wahoo, fresh Conch shouldn’t be a problem either, speaking of which, you need to stop at the grocery on the way to the villa, maybe grab some rum too, probably need to make a grocery list, your mind is open, alive, and full of gratitude. Out of your mind, and back to reality now, you are sweating, fuck it is hot up here, the air conditioning is on, but you run hot, almost always, the sweat beads up on your neck, amongst other places, and rolls down your back, beginning to soak your shirt, it is windy, you can feel it, the plane is being tossed around, just a tad, could be an be an interesting landing, but you are not sweating that, not at all.
It is a short ride, and the highlight of your travel day, in your experience travel by small airplane always means great adventures await, most certainty because the big planes don’t go to these places, it’s a question of people really, and the lack there of, as the island of your intent enters the view, there is a relief, not because you want off this plane, the ride is epic, but because you have made it back once again, its water and beaches something of magic, you can’t explain it, a fountain of youth of sorts, at least in part responsible for a life change you will never return from, nor would you ever want to, once again you consider the landing situation, your pilot is now compensating for the cross wind as the runway comes into view, there is no air traffic control here, pilots just announce their intentions over the radio, you hear them in your headset, the nose of the plane cocked left, he is coming in at a 45 degree angle to the runway, you think, “well this is interesting”, almost as if he knew your thoughts, your friend says, “I will have to straighten it up on the landing, that is a strong cross wind coming from the South”, you trust him, he is a sharp fella, your butt puckers a tad, but just a tad, then you watch him straighten it right out as the landing gear touches the asphalt, a perfect landing, a “Fuck Yeah” runs through your head.
As the plane parks, you climb out onto the blacktop, wearing flip flops, board shorts, and a slightly sweaty cutoff shirt, along with too much fishing gear to even begin to explain or carry on your own for that matter, where do they keep the carts here again? Ready to drink rum punch, smoke fatty spliffs of sticky Jamaican green when the mood strikes, eat Scorched Conch and Blackened Grouper tacos on the regular, sun and swim on the creamy white sand beaches with an intriguing woman, a sun kissed Italian, with thick curly jet black hair, all with this primary objective in mind, to go tight line with Permit on the end of my fly rod, and all in the name of keeping myself at the proper of level of livin'.
Your soul knows that there is something you owe this place, never in your life have you ever felt that you owed something to a place, but this place, it’s a love story, you feed on its energy, it is something really special, your life will forever be defined by the moment when you first arrived, not dissimilar to when a special woman walks into your life, you know that each moment here is special and fleeting, so you begin to soak it up, its powerful energy, positive juju! You keep it for yourself, for your soul, you have consumed so much, it is so good, maybe that is why it feels as if you owe it something, but this energy is in infinite supply, as abundant as the universe itself, you just have to drink it in, believe it or not it’s out there for the taking.
From the airport, you hop in your right drive car, take off driving down the left side of the road, forever confusing and backwards for your brain, headed directly to the Conch Bar, you need to kill an hour before the villa will be ready, it was a long travel day, time for a snack and a cold refreshment, you take a seat at the bar, say hello to Gary and the other friendly faces, order a rum punch and a Scorched Conch, which Gary makes up special for you and your friends, they just showed up, they heard you had just landed, all the while you sit at the bar watching his hands work magic with the knife at the cutting board. To which the only response you deem appropriate is a big smile, a sip of your cold beverage, and a yeah man, its good to be back.
Dedicated to all the wonderful people who have touched my life through this special place. A place of powerful and healing energy in space and and time. You know who you are!
Joshua
Had to find some higher ground
Had some fear to get around
You can't say what you don't know
Later on won't work no more
Last time through, I hid my tracks
So well I could not get back
Yeah, my way was hard to find
Can't sell your soul for peace of mind
Square One - Tom Petty
