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Bahamian Rhapsody (cont.)

Back at Flamingo, low tide has exposed deep undercuts below the cliffs, making the massif look like a giant mushroom, and we don our snorkel gear for closer inspection. We're amazed to discover a cave that reaches some 30 yards into the rock. It's big enough to stand up in, and in several places, sky has breached the porous limestone, lighting piles of conch shells and wave-packed sand. Brian swims off to spear dinner, and I reenter the water and continue my ogling. The reef fish, fantastic corals, and helmet conchs are so colorful they look fake.

Swimming back along the cliff walls, I see Brian doing an odd stroke with his spear high in the air, keeping the blood of a grouper from saturating the water. Just then I spot a six-foot lemon shark gliding my way at 20 yards. I convulsively spin around, looking to exit the water, but I'm trapped against the cliff. I turn, ready for agony, but the shark disappears like smoke into the deep blue water. I flail my way back to the beach, looking behind every few strokes, and Brian laughs, somehow pleased that I have undergone an unspoken Bahamian rite of passage. We clean the grouper together and contemplate one of life's fundamental truths: We are food. And in giddy defiance of this law of nature, Brian chums the water's edge with the grouper carcass.

Later that evening, four Bahamian spear fishermen we'd seen anchored nearby come to squeeze us for rum and conversation. As we sit around in the dark on coolers and rocks, they loosen up, slipping into incomprehensible Bahamian slang as they tell their stories. Much rum later, a lull in the conversation spurs one of them, Eddy, to wobble into the water and adjust the dinghy's anchor. A wild thrashing near his feet makes him jump back, and we turn to see the dark body and dorsal fin of a good-sized shark. We all laugh riotously at Eddy's stunned reaction, and a spirited round of shark stories gets started, each fisherman trying to outdo the other.

The next day, we sail back up the chain to Water Cay, named for its brackish spring. In stark contrast to all the rocky islands we've seen, most of Water Cay is sandy and powder-soft. Forty-foot bluffs run the island's length, and we scramble up in a desperate attempt to catch a cool ocean breeze. Inventing tai chi moves, I watch a parade of ternsand seagulls preen themselves on the beach, and at one point, a big osprey eyes me as he skims by. At dusk, we eat Rice-A-Roni and take in the sunset's delicate mix of pastels. The creamy sand, turquoise water, pink clouds, and baby-blue sky all fade into each other, soft and washed out. As the Milky Way emerges, we wave flashlights, signaling to what looks like a UFO come to abduct us.

Early the next morning, the wind is nil and the 25-mile stretch across the Bank turns into a grueling six-hour motor sail, with the sun turning my knees the color of fried Spam. We feel jubilant entering the George Town harbor, but it's strange seeing all the big cruisers anchored safely and people lounging about. After six days, eight islands, and 120 miles of exploring, the predictability of just sitting around a harbor seems oddly pointless. We step ashore and see footprints. For once, the beach is not ours to claim.

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