Father Jerome had built himself a retirement home from thousands of stones, a one-man monastery that looks ancient, as if plucked from an Irish landscape.
It happened again. She stepped off and called him an “Animal.” He tossed her bag on the dock and accused her of being a “Dog.” They were both wrong. The problem was not that he was an animal or that she was a dog, but that they weren’t.
I am always amazed when I find a new place in the Bahamas, but this one is especially egregious. I have been cruising the Bahamas and the Abacos specifically since the 1980's, and have cruised past this place probably 50 or more times.
Our culture does not take kindly to nonconformity. It is the scorn of our peers probably more than anything else that hinders our living out of our unique center. The fear of others’ opinions—their ridicule—their cross examinations paralyzes us more effectively than flat-out opposition.
Life changes when you head down-island, and I think Robert Frost may have said it best: “In a world of fugitives, the one going in the right direction appears to be running away.”
Every time I set off on a long cruise I am anxious and, if I am honest, I’m somewhat panicked. What if something breaks? It will. What if plans don’t go as I thought? They won’t. So, Why go? Simple.
In our time living aboard, Karen and I have come to love the sound, and recently decided to make our own horn for Largo. Lucky for us, our cruising home du jour is the Bahamas, where Queen Conch or Strombus gigas shells are plentiful.
The calm before the storm was cruel and we slept in fitful bits, waking to NOAA alerts as if they were from the front lines of an invasion. And we held each other, glad to be together, living the life we love, even in the storm.