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Bahamian Rhapsody
Exploring the beaches and islets of the forgotten Jumento Cays, where sharks, drug runners, and fishermen rule the waters—and not even the captain knows where he's going.
By Philip D. Armour

WE ARE HAMMERING south to the Jumento Cays in three- to four-foot seas, and with one rail buried, our 21-foot Sea Pearl, the Arawak, lunges gamely through the waves. Winds are easterly at 10 to 12 knots, and while the weather is clear, black clouds threaten ahead. Our expedition is two people strong (or weak), and I gladly sit tight as Brian Kronemeyer, owner of Sail Exuma, trims the sails flat, checks the GPS, and mans the helm.

Three miles out with 15 to go, it's just past sunset. As I watch Little Exuma island disappear, I try not to think about the fact that I've never sailed out of sight of land nor ever sailed at night. Sensing my discomfort, Brian turns to me and yells over the fury, "Don't worry, if it blows any harder we'll just reef the sails and open the drain plug in back! When the waves break over the bow, they'll just wash astern and drain right out!" I give him a blank look, fumble for his cigarettes, and light up. Puffing furiously, I try to stay calm. I don't even smoke.

I am in the Bahamas to experience an "exploratory" trip to the largely uninhabited Jumento Cays. Designed to judge an area's suitability for new outfitted trips, exploratories are the adventure-travel industry's version of R&D. Even though Brian has been sailing in the Bahamas for 12 years and has captained a C&C 41 around Cape Horn, he's never been to the Jumentos, which are practically in his backyard.

Brian and I, it turns out, share a love for coastal sailing in small, open boats. We both spent our childhood summers on the water—he on Lake Michigan, I on the North Sea off Sweden's west coast. Once, in a quixotic attempt to reach Stockholm from our home near Göteborg, my brother Max and I had sailed our family's 21-foot Drascombe along 275 miles of Swedish coastline, raiding candy stores and bars along the way like a couple of moody, diabetic Vikings. We never made it to Stockholm.

In the same spirit, when Brian and I rendezvous at Great Exuma's tiny airport in George Town, he pulls up in a cloud of dust and leaps from a rust-pocked truck, itching to hit the water. When I inform him that my luggage has disappeared into the black hole of Air Bahamas, he's momentarily deflated, but we agree that with 90-degree weather, I can survive with one T-shirt, two pairs of shorts, and a toothbrush. Caught up in the Spartan ethic, we almost leave the Arawak's tiny outboard motor as well, but our gold-toothed shuttle driver, Hadley Smith, talks us out of it. "Noo, noo, noo. Doon you do dat. Bring it, joost in caase," he says, shaking his head.

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