This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter from his archives. Read the previous post here.
Just point me down a long white beach and let me go. If it stretches far enough, I will walk forever. That’s the truth. I must have beachcombers’ blood in me. It’s something I’ll never tire of.
Susan and I recently discovered the Bahamas, or at least a quiet little corner of them called Elbow Cay. The atmosphere was somewhat akin to Maine, but in the tropics -quiet, laid-back, nice friendly people, and, without their making a big to-do about it, breathtakingly beautiful. Some good friends of ours in the travel business got us a good deal on the airfare, and before we even had a chance to shed our winter clothes, we were in a little, twin-engine 6-seater with a jolly pilot at the controls and a 14 year-old boy in the co-pilot’s seat, lifting off out of Fort Lauderdale.
What a way to discover the Bahamas! The weather was perfect. After an hour’s flight at low altitude, we came in over the Abacos, taking in every detail of those scrubby, pine-covered and palm-fringed islands and hundreds of square miles of turquoise sea. Everywhere, were white sand beaches without end.
We landed at Marsh Harbor and took a 20-minute ferry ride across the Sea of Abaco to Elbow Cay, straight into the dock at the Abaco Inn, whose solemn slogan, “Barefoot Elegance,” was certainly not lost on us as we had packed our minimalist bags the night before. The place was so easygoing and friendly that not only were we told not to worry about locking our rooms, they were in fact unlockable – no locks at all. And we made up our minds that we were there for the sole purpose of not worrying about a damned thing. We took our shoes off and got right into being “barefoot and elegant.”
Our traveling companions, the travel agents, had been there before. They were old hands. Rum was high on their list of the Bahamas’ delights. Once we had dumped our bags in our rooms and removed all garments having anything to do with winter, an irresistible waft of tropical air and gently rustling palm leaves lured us up the little hill to the inn’s veranda, where there just happened to be a very well-appointed bar and the most beautiful Bahamian lady bartender.
The bar would not have been my chosen first stop, though it certainly wouldn’t have been my last. With tall glasses of dark Myers’s rum and pineapple juice in hand, I had no complaints. But I had been eyeing those beaches all the way to our destination that day, and my strongest compulsion was to get out there and get my feet wet, to just go and go and read the stories in the sand.
As Susan and our friends carried on about this and that, who got the best room, where should we eat dinner and such, I just sat there looking at the beaches. The inn was perched on a narrow isthmus, so there were actually beaches on both sides of us, wherever I looked. Someone thought out loud how nice it would be to take a nap in the hammock outside her cabin, and I thought, “Nuts to that!” I had to walk on a beach, any beach! And someone else got to worrying about where was her big hat and the sun-block stuff. I couldn’t stand it any longer, rum or no rum; there were seashells out there to be found!
I gulped the last of my drink and was on my way, hopping along as I tore off my sandals. I just couldn’t wait to feel the caress of that liquid turquoise around my winter-weary feet and ankles. And, man, when my tired old pads first felt that wet sand, it… it was like, I don’t know… my whole being was home!
I don’t often have a chance to walk on a long, long beach, not like in the Bahamas. And when I do, I’m a beachcombing fool!
That evening we had a wonderful dinner of conch salad and grilled grouper. And more rum with pineapple juice. And after dinner, the balmy night air and a trillion bright stars. Not bad, considering there was a blizzard raging back in Maine.
The next morning, early, I had my chance. I was the first one on the beach on the whole of Elbow Cay, the first one to track the new sand, the first to find what shells had washed up with the night’s tide, and I was truly, truly barefoot and happy. I walked three miles and filled my pockets with everything that caught my eye. As far as I could see, shell and coral sand, pink and white, forever.
When I got back, I was still the first one up at the inn, except for the old lady sweeping the veranda and whoever it was who set out the coffee tray. And I sat there drinking my coffee in the warm, morning sun, enjoying the company of that whispering broom, the palm trees, half a dozen geckos and the view in all directions of white sand beach and turquoise sea. It was my birthday. That moment marked the close of my first half-century on this planet, and I knew in my heart I had no reason to complain.
Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.
