A
cold front sweeping through the northern Bahamas gave us a nice
southwest wind to ride to Conception Island, about 20 miles northeast
of Long Island. With 15 knots on our butt we glided comfortably
across the waves, although every once in a while the swell would hit
us just so and we'd roll back and forth, sails flapping.
Of course we trolled lines, and 7 or so miles out of Conception we got a strike -- a big mahi-mahi. It fought like a demon, flashing blue as it jumped and dove behind us, then gold as Britt brought it closer to the boat. When the fish was alongside, I took the rod and Britt manned the gaff, scooping the mahi-mahi onto the side deck. I ran for the camera and the squirt bottle of vodka we keep for just such an occasion, intending to do in the fish with a few shots to the gills and then take some photos of our catch.
Our catch, however, had a different plan. It thrashed and bucked, spurting blood all over the side deck, the dodger, the cockpit, and Britt's clothes. (When we cleaned up afterward, we found fish blood splattered all the way from the mast back to the dinghy davits!) That fish thrashed so hard that it jumped off the gaff and back into the water. It was still hooked on the fishing line, and the rod almost got pulled overboard after it, but Britt dropped the gaff, grabbed the rod, and recaptured our dinner. This time, when we got it back on board, we subdued it as quickly as we could using a trick Kevin had told us -- pressing down on the eyes -- and soon it was all over.
The
mahi-mahi measured 39 inches from end to end, and it filleted nicely
into more meat than we knew what to do with. Severn Star also
caught one, nearly the same size. Another boat that was crossing over
from Long Island with us, Vamonos, hooked an even bigger mahi
which eventually got away; their bad luck was our gain, though,
because it gave us an excuse to give away a few fillets.
Baba-Lou, a boat we'd met back in the Exumas, was in the
anchorage at Conception when we arrived, and we gave them a couple of
hunks as well. We still had enough fish for four meals for
ourselves.
(If you go to the Bahamas and don't have much luck catching fish, be sure to make friends with people who [a] catch fish, and [b] don't have a freezer. Like us!)
Conception Island is well-known for its terrific wall dives. We could see the drop-off as we approached the anchorage, a distinct boundary between the deep blue of unchartable depths and the clear and vivid aqua of shallower water. As in the Jumentos, the water was astonishingly transparent.
The guidebooks always describe the Bahamas as having "gin-clear water." This always amused me. What makes gin clearer than pure water? And why gin in particular; why not vodka-clear water? Looking down off Windom's deck, bobbing in the East Bay anchorage, I finally figured it out. The pale blue of twelve feet of perfect Bahamian water over white sand is exactly the color of a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.
It was a good thing that the water was so beautiful, because the anchorage was so rolly that both of us took inadvertent, fully-clothed swims. Britt's came when he was trying to balance in the partly-hoisted dinghy to clean it out; when he lowered a bucket over the side to get some water, the dinghy tipped and dumped him right over the side. I laughed as I helped him back aboard, but got my payback when we dinghied over to Vamonos to deliver a packet of mahi-mahi. Just as I stepped onto their boat, a big swell rocked us apart, and in I splooshed.
The next day dawned brilliantly blue and almost windless, perfect for diving. And we had the perfect dive boat: Max and Carol on Vamonos, a Prout 45 catamaran, invited us and Kevin and Sara to dive with them. That big cat has more room than my first apartment did, and enough deck space for six divers to gear up without getting in each others way. Best of all, they have an air compressor, so we weren't limited to only a single dive while at Conception.
Carol
drove us out of the anchorage and around to the south side of the
island, where we tied up to one of the two small dive moorings. The
air was so still that even out on the unprotected edge of the ocean,
the water's surface was nearly glassy, and the visibility was unreal.
Kevin looked off the stern and commented that it didn't seem too
deep, only 20-25 feet or so; according to the depthsounder, we were
actually in 60 feet of water!
We all suited up and jumped in. The drop-off was just to the side, covered with huge formations. Big coral heads blossomed like oversized cauliflowers along the edge; below a layer of massive barrel sponges and plates like fungus, the wall dropped out of sight. We quickly descended to 90 feet, just below the rim.
We were not alone. Four sharks cruised the edge, circling us in big, lazy loops. Now, we'd seen more sharks at one time in the Water Cay blue hole, but those had kept their distance. These sharks got up close and personal with us. Not in a threatening way, but they were definitely keeping an eye on us. Maybe they wanted to make sure we didn't steal any of their fish or make any moves on their sharky girlfriends; they'd glide past, then circle back above our heads, or swim straight at us and then angle off at the last moment, unconcernedly, like they were really planning on going that way all along. Every time a big blunt shark-nose and a mouthful of shark-teeth came my way, my heart started pounding so loudly I was sure they could hear it in George Town.
We eventually managed to tear our attention away from the sharks (no mean feat, that!) and look at the rest of our surroundings. I got close enough to spear one huge Nassau grouper that would have easily fed all six of us (of course we had no spears with us since Bahamian law prohibits spearfishing with SCUBA gear), and we saw several other large fish as well, but there were few of the medium-sized colorful fishes that usually inhabit reefs. The corals and sponges formed huge caverns, and as we hovered at 90 feet or so we could see myriad small fish swarming back and forth. It was such a fun dive that we did it twice: the next day, we came back to the same mooring and explored the wall in the opposite direction.
On our second day of diving, Carol invited me to pilot Vamonos. It was my first time with dual engines and hydraulic steering, and of course it was also the first catamaran and the largest boat I'd ever driven. Driving a twin-engine boat is a hoot. It took me a while to get used to it, but on the way back from the dive mooring I steered on engines only, never touching the wheel, and did a creditable enough job of anchoring. At least Max, on the bow, didn't laugh too hard.
In
addition to being an awesome dive platform and a kick to drive
around, a big cat makes a super party boat. We'd started our relaxing
early with a few beers (please don't tell my PADI instructor) and
snacks after the dive. It was a rowdy ride back, and after we
anchored we headed back to our own boats only long enough to cook a
few things for a major gourmet potluck back on Vamonos.
It was a multinational affair. Our cocktails were accompanied with appetizers: grilled eggplant, mahi-mahi roe and sauteed stingray nuggets. The main courses were fish tacos (mahi-mahi, of course) and spinach gnocchi, and we had a bottle of red and a bottle of white to wash it all down. Dim lights, jazz tunes, and good conversation around the roomy table enhanced the awesome food. Afterward, we removed to the nets forward between the hulls -- sort of the catamaran equivalent of a hot tub -- with a bottle of port and a pan of pecan chocolate-chip blondies. We watched the stars and listened to Max declaim the maritime poetry of John Masefield. Yup, the life of a cruising sailor sure is a life of privation and need.