Since we had a few days of idle time
in Nassau until our California Crew –
Pete McRae, Dave Udell and Michel
Schmied – were to fly back home to
be replaced by the rest of the Streifer
family, we decided to take a short
side trip to the north end of
Eleuthera.
in Nassau until our California Crew –
Pete McRae, Dave Udell and Michel
Schmied – were to fly back home to
be replaced by the rest of the Streifer
family, we decided to take a short
side trip to the north end of
Eleuthera.
Eleuthera is a long, narrow chain of islands
east of Nassau, New Providence. On the
charts it looks like a barbed fishhook,
marking the northeast corner of the Great
Bahama Bank. East of Eleuthera is the
Atlantic Ocean. Our destination, Spanish
Wells, is on the northernmost tip of the
Eleuthera chain, about 45 miles northeast of
Nassau.
east of Nassau, New Providence. On the
charts it looks like a barbed fishhook,
marking the northeast corner of the Great
Bahama Bank. East of Eleuthera is the
Atlantic Ocean. Our destination, Spanish
Wells, is on the northernmost tip of the
Eleuthera chain, about 45 miles northeast of
Nassau.
The sail to Eleuthera is described as an easy, deepwater, straight shot up the Northeast New Providence Channel.
Easy, that is, once we navigate a complicated series of legs and turns to safely exit Nassau Harbor to the east (not
the deepwater west entrance we used a few days earlier), then thread our way between numerous rocks, shoals,
shallows and coral heads to the edge of the Bank where we actually reach the aforementioned deep water. We
followed the waypoints laid out in our cruising guide to the letter, with our final leg a northward shot across Hanover
Sound between Rose Island Rocks to our right and Salt Cay to our left. High surf was breaking on both of these
hazards, less than a hundred yards on either side of us. Just as we felt we were in the clear, two enormous (well,
they looked enormous), steep waves came right for our bow. Dakota Rose met them head on, rising up the first then
surfing down to meet the second. The second wave actually started breaking over our bow just as we crested it and
slammed down on the back side. While things below got thrown around a bit, the only casualty was Michel’s video
camera, which, we’re sure, caught the exciting ride on tape right up to its saltwater drenching. (We tried drying it out
in the oven later that evening, but to no avail.)
We reached our first stop and dropped our anchor at Royal Island in mid-afternoon. Royal Island is deserted,
although ruins of buildings, a concrete pier, paved pathways and a small, man-made lagoon on the north shore
point to some previous habitation. No one we asked has been able to give us the history of the ruins. The small bay,
on the southern side, was picture-perfect. We shared it with four or five other boats, went ashore and explored the
island. The next day we took our dinghy, Rosebud, around to the reef-protected northwestern shore for a day of
snorkeling and shell hunting on a beach that was ours alone. Unfortunately, one of us forgot to bring extra gas for
the outboard, giving Peter the opportunity to demonstrate his rowing form, learned in his boarding-school days in
rowing shells, as we paddled the 2 miles back to the bay.
As the sun went down, Peter broke out his saltwater fly fishing gear and gave it a whirl. No luck that night, but at first
light the next day he tried again and (claims to have) actually caught two small fish. He was unable to show us the
evidence because he says he released them because they were “too pretty to eat.” Hmmmmm …
It was an hour’s slow motoring in shallow water over to Spanish Wells, on St. George’s Cay, where we picked up a
mooring buoy in a small anchorage on the eastern end of the commercial waterfront. This is a working fishing town,
with no accommodations whatsoever to the visiting tourist or cruiser. Spanish Wells dates back to 1648, when it was
settled by a band calling itself the Eleutheran Adventurers, who left Bermuda to found their own colony, independent
of British control. To this day, Spanish Wells is primarily occupied by people of British stock engaged in fishing and,
to a much greater extent, lobstering. Something like 75% of the Bahamian lobster catch is brought into Spanish
Wells, and it is a major supplier to Red Lobster in the States. When we tried to buy a few lobsters for dinner, the
price they quoted us was $18 per pound! Clearly, ours was not the business they preferred.
The main street is barely two lanes wide and runs a couple of miles, the length of the island. Up and down side
streets we saw sturdy houses on well-tended plots of land. There seems to be serious money in lobstering, which,
coupled with a dearth of spending opportunities on the island itself, has led many of the younger crowd to invest in
hot cars and motorcycles. We saw the most varied procession of vehicles up and down the main street: a hot
Mustang, followed by a few golf carts, a BMW convertible, a few mopeds, a Harley Davidson, and so on. With the
maximum realistic speed about 20 mph, there seemed to be so much wasted horsepower.
A few vignettes of our Spanish Wells experience:
Easy, that is, once we navigate a complicated series of legs and turns to safely exit Nassau Harbor to the east (not
the deepwater west entrance we used a few days earlier), then thread our way between numerous rocks, shoals,
shallows and coral heads to the edge of the Bank where we actually reach the aforementioned deep water. We
followed the waypoints laid out in our cruising guide to the letter, with our final leg a northward shot across Hanover
Sound between Rose Island Rocks to our right and Salt Cay to our left. High surf was breaking on both of these
hazards, less than a hundred yards on either side of us. Just as we felt we were in the clear, two enormous (well,
they looked enormous), steep waves came right for our bow. Dakota Rose met them head on, rising up the first then
surfing down to meet the second. The second wave actually started breaking over our bow just as we crested it and
slammed down on the back side. While things below got thrown around a bit, the only casualty was Michel’s video
camera, which, we’re sure, caught the exciting ride on tape right up to its saltwater drenching. (We tried drying it out
in the oven later that evening, but to no avail.)
We reached our first stop and dropped our anchor at Royal Island in mid-afternoon. Royal Island is deserted,
although ruins of buildings, a concrete pier, paved pathways and a small, man-made lagoon on the north shore
point to some previous habitation. No one we asked has been able to give us the history of the ruins. The small bay,
on the southern side, was picture-perfect. We shared it with four or five other boats, went ashore and explored the
island. The next day we took our dinghy, Rosebud, around to the reef-protected northwestern shore for a day of
snorkeling and shell hunting on a beach that was ours alone. Unfortunately, one of us forgot to bring extra gas for
the outboard, giving Peter the opportunity to demonstrate his rowing form, learned in his boarding-school days in
rowing shells, as we paddled the 2 miles back to the bay.
As the sun went down, Peter broke out his saltwater fly fishing gear and gave it a whirl. No luck that night, but at first
light the next day he tried again and (claims to have) actually caught two small fish. He was unable to show us the
evidence because he says he released them because they were “too pretty to eat.” Hmmmmm …
It was an hour’s slow motoring in shallow water over to Spanish Wells, on St. George’s Cay, where we picked up a
mooring buoy in a small anchorage on the eastern end of the commercial waterfront. This is a working fishing town,
with no accommodations whatsoever to the visiting tourist or cruiser. Spanish Wells dates back to 1648, when it was
settled by a band calling itself the Eleutheran Adventurers, who left Bermuda to found their own colony, independent
of British control. To this day, Spanish Wells is primarily occupied by people of British stock engaged in fishing and,
to a much greater extent, lobstering. Something like 75% of the Bahamian lobster catch is brought into Spanish
Wells, and it is a major supplier to Red Lobster in the States. When we tried to buy a few lobsters for dinner, the
price they quoted us was $18 per pound! Clearly, ours was not the business they preferred.
The main street is barely two lanes wide and runs a couple of miles, the length of the island. Up and down side
streets we saw sturdy houses on well-tended plots of land. There seems to be serious money in lobstering, which,
coupled with a dearth of spending opportunities on the island itself, has led many of the younger crowd to invest in
hot cars and motorcycles. We saw the most varied procession of vehicles up and down the main street: a hot
Mustang, followed by a few golf carts, a BMW convertible, a few mopeds, a Harley Davidson, and so on. With the
maximum realistic speed about 20 mph, there seemed to be so much wasted horsepower.
A few vignettes of our Spanish Wells experience:
We tried to visit the Spanish Wells Museum, which was locked up tight. Several locals told us to call
at the Island Market, next door, for the key, but when we did we were told that the Museum had
recently been treated for termites and wasn’t safe to enter.
The Spanish Wells Secondary School basketball team is called the Bulldogs. Apparently they do
reasonably well in inter-island play.
The movie theater, behind the dive shop, was showing Meet the Fockers.
We walked up a side street following signs to a shell shop. We knocked on the door of a private
house, which was answered by a teenage boy wearing a Bulldogs jersey who was kind enough to
let us into the shop by unlocking and raising their garage door. He told us to come back to the
house if we wanted to buy anything. On the walls were a number of sea turtle carapaces; while
pretty, we didn’t think they’d fit in the overhead bin of an airplane.
While walking the almost-deserted, shallow-water beach on the north shore we stopped to chat with
two twenty-something mothers who were out with their broods. One was from Minnesota; she and
her husband and their four young kids spend six months a year in Spanish Wells in a house that he
built, and where he works in the lobster boats. The other was from New Zealand and had been
living on a small sailboat in Spanish Wells Harbor, with her husband the painter (and lobster
fisherman) and their 4-year-old daughter, for two years. They let us know that the timing for our
visit there was unfortunate. The lobster fleet was scheduled to leave within a few days for one of the
four, six-week voyages it makes each year. If we were to return in, say, four weeks, the women of
the island would have been companionless for long enough – according to these two – that we’d
have a much better time.
at the Island Market, next door, for the key, but when we did we were told that the Museum had
recently been treated for termites and wasn’t safe to enter.
The Spanish Wells Secondary School basketball team is called the Bulldogs. Apparently they do
reasonably well in inter-island play.
The movie theater, behind the dive shop, was showing Meet the Fockers.
We walked up a side street following signs to a shell shop. We knocked on the door of a private
house, which was answered by a teenage boy wearing a Bulldogs jersey who was kind enough to
let us into the shop by unlocking and raising their garage door. He told us to come back to the
house if we wanted to buy anything. On the walls were a number of sea turtle carapaces; while
pretty, we didn’t think they’d fit in the overhead bin of an airplane.
While walking the almost-deserted, shallow-water beach on the north shore we stopped to chat with
two twenty-something mothers who were out with their broods. One was from Minnesota; she and
her husband and their four young kids spend six months a year in Spanish Wells in a house that he
built, and where he works in the lobster boats. The other was from New Zealand and had been
living on a small sailboat in Spanish Wells Harbor, with her husband the painter (and lobster
fisherman) and their 4-year-old daughter, for two years. They let us know that the timing for our
visit there was unfortunate. The lobster fleet was scheduled to leave within a few days for one of the
four, six-week voyages it makes each year. If we were to return in, say, four weeks, the women of
the island would have been companionless for long enough – according to these two – that we’d
have a much better time.
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
Eleuthera, January 25 - 28
Ahhhh … but, we had to leave at first light the next morning. We were expecting a weak cold front to hit us and
wanted to be well on our way back to Nassau, which we were except for an unscheduled stop back at Royal Island,
the reason for which we won’t go into here, other than, following a complicated series of transactions, Pete is now
forever in Dave’s debt.
We learned an important lesson: when the National Weather Service is predicting winds of 15 to 20 knots, 3 to 5 foot
seas and occasional showers, they may, in fact, mean winds of 30 to 35 knots, 10 to 15 foot seas and drenching
downpours. What jokesters!
But, we got to practice reefing sails, and even our man overboard maneuvers when we had to retrieve our dinghy
after it broke free from the tow line. (Why were we towing it instead of carrying it on deck? See preceding
paragraph.) We made several passes under sail but were unable to get close enough to snag it with our boat hook,
so we dropped sails and tried under power. Just as we made our final approach, heading for it directly into the wind,
a wave picked up our bow, swung us sideways, and deposited us right down on top of poor Rosebud, immobilizing it
but also neatly breaking its hard bottom crosswise, right across the middle. As I write this, Rosebud is in the
(hopefully) capable hands of Michael Cooper, master fiberglassman of Nassau, for repairs.
Rather than try to run the same breaking surf into the eastern end of Nassau Harbor by which we’d left a few days
earlier, we sailed back around to the eastern entrance. It was still a challenge, with rollers hitting us on the beam as
we motored past the lighthouse, avoiding a departing tanker and a fast catamaran ferry coming right up behind us.
So, we were back at Atlantis Marina and on our way to nice, long, hot showers … except for the fact that the hot
water has been out for a couple of days. Brrrrrrr …
wanted to be well on our way back to Nassau, which we were except for an unscheduled stop back at Royal Island,
the reason for which we won’t go into here, other than, following a complicated series of transactions, Pete is now
forever in Dave’s debt.
We learned an important lesson: when the National Weather Service is predicting winds of 15 to 20 knots, 3 to 5 foot
seas and occasional showers, they may, in fact, mean winds of 30 to 35 knots, 10 to 15 foot seas and drenching
downpours. What jokesters!
But, we got to practice reefing sails, and even our man overboard maneuvers when we had to retrieve our dinghy
after it broke free from the tow line. (Why were we towing it instead of carrying it on deck? See preceding
paragraph.) We made several passes under sail but were unable to get close enough to snag it with our boat hook,
so we dropped sails and tried under power. Just as we made our final approach, heading for it directly into the wind,
a wave picked up our bow, swung us sideways, and deposited us right down on top of poor Rosebud, immobilizing it
but also neatly breaking its hard bottom crosswise, right across the middle. As I write this, Rosebud is in the
(hopefully) capable hands of Michael Cooper, master fiberglassman of Nassau, for repairs.
Rather than try to run the same breaking surf into the eastern end of Nassau Harbor by which we’d left a few days
earlier, we sailed back around to the eastern entrance. It was still a challenge, with rollers hitting us on the beam as
we motored past the lighthouse, avoiding a departing tanker and a fast catamaran ferry coming right up behind us.
So, we were back at Atlantis Marina and on our way to nice, long, hot showers … except for the fact that the hot
water has been out for a couple of days. Brrrrrrr …