The Big Red Boat

Travel writers like to distinguish themselves from tourists. They call themselves travelers, and insist they be classified in a higher light than Mr. Jones and his sun-hat. They balk at the meaninglessness of a tourist's relaxation. They laugh at the alcoholic concoctions that sell for ten dollars a piece. They insist that the traveler respects a culture, but that the tourist degrades it, makes it a pale and colorful imitation of their wealthier suburb.

But this is as nonsense as the tourist who brings down a Nassau or Freeport into a pale imitation of itself. Being a tourist does not make you wrong. It makes you in need of a bit of relaxation, end of story. There are rules which tourists should follow; among them respect, reservation, a good ear, a head enough to obey the ecological rules for a fragile place. These are the rules which preserve a place's cultural and ecological dignity - not the rules of Mr. Travel Writer, and his ego.

Jane and I are here for just that sort of thing. An empty place without other people, without anything much but ourselves. That is what makes the out-island Bahamas weird. In all of its brutal history, we can forget all that and enjoy a piney marsh of a place for what it is today - a blank slate with a lean-to infrastructure. There is nothing to do here; one over-priced restaurant, no gambling, no night-life, no gatherings, no parties. Just random people, local and not. But that brutal history - a history which Abaco fanatics easily forget - is essential to its future. Without precedent, how easy would it be to turn your head - like so many locals did when the dredging operation came to town.

Jane settles the wheel of the boat, throttle and trim, until the wake is cut tight, and the unreal aqua underneath is a blur; the black spots - sea turtles, mackeral, barracuda, melt into the speed. We are cruising to Guana Cay, several miles from the Abaco mainland.