Vol. 1 The next thing I knew was that the boat was fighting to push forward and climb another wave. My salt-crusted eyes opened just in time to see as Kyle slammed the throttles into the furthest forward position they could be, maxing them out - and the boat lurched slowly forward in response. My whole body could feel the strain of the motors pushing against the weight of the water that now filled the boat to almost knee height. My eyes grew wider and wider as I realized the gravity of the situation - there had to be 100+ gallons of water inside the floor-space with us.
"Holy shit!" I yelped pathetically, hurriedly pulling my feet up underneath me onto the captains chair as we lurched forward and up on top of the oncoming wave; as the bow turned upward near the top of the wave, water began gushing and pouring out of the back of the boat, streaming through the gap between the motors, over the dive platform, and back to the depths from whence it came. I had to lunge and grab onto the dive bag, filled with our fins, masks and snorkels, before it joined the masses of water returning to the ocean.
While the water remaining on the floor of the boat (now only at ankle height) was busy sloshing around, trying to find a path for escape, we were still being relentlessly tossed around by the surrounding waves. It was as if the ocean was laughing at us, challenging us to a duel that she knew we could not win. To me, the sea has never been a thing, but more of a powerful entity - a goddess who was either cruel or fair, completely dependent upon her mood. And today, she was toying with us.
For some reason, this thought made me incredibly angry. Perhaps it was partly the fear wracking my brain, or the knowledge that literally thousands of people die after their boats capsize along this very coast each year, I'm not sure which - but as we continued swaying and rocking, I held on tightly to the frame of the captain's chair, and screamed out to the laughing waves, "Is that all ya got?! We are GOING to Bimini!"
Luckily for me, the din of the storm in combination with the motors struggling to churn the water all but drowned out my taunt. I can't say whether it helped us or not, but in that moment, I should have realized this was a sign. The conditions turning sour were a warning to stay away from the islands, and we, in our excitement for our long-awaited vacation, were not paying attention. Even though everything in my gut was telling me we should turn back in that moment, at that point I was so angry I was determined to reach our destination.
It will be worth it... any kind of obstacle will be worth it once we're there... I had thought, gritting my teeth.
Retrospect would aim to teach me that in reality, the opposite was true. There was nothing - not all the mountains of lost treasure or schools of trophy fish in the sea - that would be worth what we were going to face on the island.
We completed the rest of the 42 miles of our voyage fighting the storm, and only took one more wave over the bow. By the time we had reached the shore line of the island, the ominous weather and less than favorable seas we saw in the Gulf had all but disappeared. In its place was everything we loved about Bimini - clear skies, clear water, and clear minds.
We pulled through the channel at the tip of the island right at noon that first day, completing our journey in just over 3 hours. We pulled into the marina at our hotel, the Seacrest, and literally fell out of the vessel on wobbly legs. We knelt and kissed the wooden planks of the dock repeatedly, much to the amusement of the locals standing at the fuel pump at the end of the marina.
"You crazy fools crossed over on that today?" One of them called, laughing. 26' may seem like a big boat, but it really is not. Big for a lake, sure. Big for the ocean? Not a chance.
"Yep, should've turned around many times! But here we are!" Kyle answered, throwing his arms up in mock praise to the sky.
"So you are. Welcome to paradise, crazy white boy!" Another man called back to us, and the group of men laughed again, nodding in agreement.
We had to check in at customs, then unload all of our gear before we could start adventuring. We were staying on the second floor of the faded yellow hotel (much to our dismay when carrying all of our gear up and down the flights of stairs), which overlooked the marina and faced out to the east, the flats of the island. In the flats, the maximum depth was around twelve feet, and the expanse of pristine water over sparkling white sand stretched as far as the eye could see.
The island has a rich history as a known pirate island and rum running operation, then later on, a major cocaine running operation. The way the island is situated makes it a perfect location for hiding, if one knows how to navigate the water - only one entrance exists.
Because the maximum depth of the flats on the interior east of the island (where the hotel looked out over) was so shallow, and these flats extended a decent ten-twenty miles out away from the island, many a ship had fallen prey to the flats. Any ship that was unaware of the depth would have run aground in the flats, even if they came by way of the open sea. There was only one entrance to access the interior of the island, which was the ship channel at the southern tip of the island we had entered in through. This being the only entrance, it was very easy to keep track of who was coming and going from the island.
Bimini consists of three actual islands: North Bimini (where we stay) South Bimini, and East Bimini (mostly uninhabited). North Bimini itself is only seven miles long, and around 700 feet wide. There are two main roads, the King's Highway and the Queen's Highway, which run parallel to each other down the length of the island. Between the roads, the locals have built their homes and a few scattered businesses. There are only a handful of restaurants, gift shops and grocery stores in operation on the island, and their hours are subject to change. There have been several occasions when we ventured out to get a drink, or pick up a grocery item, to discover that the posted hours outside the business do not really dictate the hours - the owner does. The only way to know what is open and what isn't is to physically get down to the business yourself, or ask the locals where and when to find what you need. The one business in operation on the island that adheres to "normal" business practices is the infamous Hilton Hotel.
I say infamous because most of the locals on the island despise the hotel. The reason may not matter to some who only come to tropical islands to sip cocktails by an infinity pool, they would not understand the hatred. There are plenty of swimming pools at the Hilton. There is also a casino, several restaurants, and acre upon ocean viewing acre of luxury accommodations. The problem is that the construction of the hotel blasted its way right through the mangroves that extend around the northern tip of the islands and all the way into the flats - which make up the breeding grounds and nursery for virtually every species found in the water - effectively bringing the ecosystem to its knees.
The hotel also takes business from other, smaller hotels and restaurants on the opposite end of the island. So not only did the owners rape the island and the surrounding reefs, now they steal any remaining business from the locals.
We hardly ever make it to that end of the island when we visit, choosing instead to support the locals and local businesses - but I'll never forget the time we had bad weather for snorkeling and decided to rent a golf cart and trek to the casino for some lazy, drunken fun. When we returned and told the dock-master at our hotel where we had been, his look immediately turned dark. His happy, cheerful demeanor shifted immediately to cold and aloof.
"That place down there is the biggest money laundering outfit I've ever seen," he said, angrily. "If you're gonna rent my carts, don't take 'em down there," he mumbled, and took off around the corner of the hotel.
We were stunned into silence, but knew from then on to keep those types of expeditions to ourselves in the future.
After we had finished checking in at customs and unloading everything into the hotel room, we decided we would start our current adventure with a little late afternoon snorkeling. First we took a celebratory shot of whiskey in the room, then walked across the dusty road among the golf carts and bicyclists to our favorite bar, simply called "Toons' Place."
There are no signs outside the brightly colored building, no banner with the name or hours posted. This is because Toon's Place is always open, and I do mean always. There is also loud music blasting, huge fans blowing the hot air around, and every space of the interior is covered in dollar bills stapled to the wood. Our favorite part though, is the bartender and owner, Toons. He's that type of bartender that is always drinking and having fun with those at his bartop, and if he likes you, he's notorious for passing out free shots.
"Ayyy, yo, my white cousins!" Toons yelled from behind the bar as we walked across the sandy floor, his dreadlocks swinging wildly to the blaring music. He extended his tanned ebony hand first to Kyle, then to me, and turned immediately to pour us each a shot from a random open bottle of liquor on the bar next to him. He poured three - always one for himself - and with that, we smiled and touched glasses in cheers, then took the shots in unison.
"So you two crazy kids are back, huh? What's on the agenda today?" Toons asked, popping open a beer for another customer and handing it down the bar.
"We're headed out for some snorkeling in the front of the island, maybe shoot a fish or two," Kyle said, grinning.
"Alright, alright. Just be careful. I've heard there are some sketchy folks about this time of year. You want a drink for the road?" Toons asked, glancing in our direction as he polished off glasses and stacked them neatly.
I stopped to think, my head bobbing to the steady boom of the bass in the music. It was strange for him to mention being careful, with all the stories we had told him over the years, he knew that we knew what we were doing. I chalked it up to island superstition, as most of the residents didn't trust anyone they didn't know - especially the Cubans that frequented the casino.
"Yeah, give us two Goom Bay Smashes. And don't worry about us, we'll be on the lookout for pirates," Kyle said, winking at Toons, and handed him a twenty.
After we had our pineapple infused beverages laden with local rum in hand, we made our way to the boat. We left the marina and immediately took the channel out to the front of the island, which faced west, as the sun was beginning to sink. The sky was blue tinged with the loveliest shade of rose on the horizon, and everything was bathed in sunlight. The boat was now cutting though the water like butter, hardly any sound of effort could be heard from the motors - nothing like the conditions we experienced coming across from Florida. I sipped my drink and held on to the boat topper above my head, looking down into the perfectly calm, clear water. We drove about a mile up the shoreline and picked a spot to jump in. I donned my black skinsuit and started to de-fog my mask while Kyle secured the anchor.
We were probably five hundred yards from the beach, and I could just make out structural details on the mansion style beach houses dotted along the shore. It seemed that every one was at least three stories tall, with wraparound porches for each level, spectacular windows facing the beach, and towering leafy trees all around. All the homes were painted in bright shades of green and blue - colors of the waters just out in front of the homes. The sound of the gentle waves lapping the surface and the playful breeze combined with the sight of the ocean mansions was lulling me into a serenely calm state, and I started to hum lazily while I pulled on my fins.
We were both seated on the starboard side of the boat, one leg draped carelessly into the water and one firmly planted inside the boat before launching into our first snorkel. I closed my eyes and worked to calm my breathing, dragging my hanging leg back and forth in time to the counting in my head. Just as my breathing synced to the rhythm in my head, I happened to notice a woman standing on the top balcony of one of the mansions. She appeared to be facing us, and was wildly waving her arms in our direction.
I nudged Kyle, who was adjusting his snorkel, and pointed to the woman. She was still waving her arms in our direction. We both waited and squinted to see if she was pointing at the water - signifying a shark, and for us to stay out of the water - but she was just crazily waving us off. The more we watched, the more it dawned on us that she wanted us to leave.
A chill went up my spine.
Nobody had ever been rude in that way here before, it was too laid back on this end of the island for snooty people who think they own the water in front of their beach rental. The end of the island with the Hilton, sure. It was easy to ignore them, though, as all the ocean view accommodations also had white fences that blocked the occupant from having to see lowly peasants like ourselves actually enjoying the water.
The woman's motions began to get more frantic, as she waved us away over and over again. I could just barely hear her voice, she seemed to be yelling "leave." Now she was jumping around, seemingly desperate for us to notice her.
We looked at each other, and laughed nervously. "Crazy old bitch," Kyle said, shaking his head, "let's just get in the water and we won't be able to see her anymore." He flipped his other leg over the side of the boat and with a splash slid into the water. I watched as his shape moved slowly away from the boat and out over the brown and black splotches of reef.
I watched the woman frantically wave for a moment more, not totally convinced we should really be getting into the water. I couldn't make out any specific details about her person other than she appeared to be white and wearing all black clothing. After a few more minutes of the same thing, I sighed and resolved to join Kyle under the waves, deciding she was probably harmless.
I kicked both legs to hang into the water over the side of the boat, and pulled my mask back down over my eyes. As I slid into the water, though, I caught one more glimpse of the woman - but this last flash was different. Instead of flailing her arms wildly, she seemed to be facing a different direction, and her body language was totally different. I slid into the water - the temperature was like a warm bath - and decided to swim closer to shore to see what was going on with this crazy old bat. If I could, I aimed to tell her the ocean belonged to everyone and to get off her high horse with this "leave" bullshit.
As I swam towards the shore, I scanned the water beneath me. A few large triggerfish were floating aimlessly around the reefs, their oversized dorsal and pectoral fins flopping around stupidly. Parrotfish dotted the reefs as well, their iridescent pink, purple and green scales catching the light as the meandered along. Other smaller fish came and went into crevices in the coral of the reef, and tiny white jellyfish floated in and out in front of my mask. Everything was peaceful here, nothing amiss among the colorful reefs and perfect expanse of white sand.
I estimated I was probably about a hundred yards from the shore now, and since the water level was getting much more shallow, I knew the beach wasn't far off. I surfaced, treading water directly beneath me with my fins, and pulled off my mask.
I found the house just in time to see the woman who was waving us away engaged in conversation with someone else, a new figure. I had to keep up a steady pace with my fins pulsing beneath me to stay above the surface enough to see the pair, but immediately noticed something was off.
The woman in black was facing away from me, looking at this other person, and now her hands were raised in front of her in what I immediately registered was a surrender. My eyes widened as I watched the scene unfold from the silence of the waves, the two seemed to be arguing. I could not hear what they were saying from my watery hiding spot, but I kept up the pace with my fins long enough to see the new figure raise their arm and bring it down quickly towards the other woman's head, striking her - and saw her fall immediately to the floor.
I gasped as she fell, which was my first mistake, - my mouth was right at the surface of the water at this point- and I simultaneously took in a huge gulp of salty water. As I choked and spat out the water, I lost sight of the figures on the balcony. I tried to find Kyle while I gasped for air, spluttering, but could not see him. I knew I had to get back to the boat, so I swam as fast as I could back toward the rope stretching up from the reef - our anchor. I knew now the woman had been motioning for us to go and get help, not to leave. The other thing I knew was that I had not been seen, and it was a stroke of luck we had been in the water when the assailant attacked the woman.
I reached the ladder at the back of the boat and heaved myself up and into the vessel as quickly as I could while still wearing fins. I threw my mask and snorkel into the dive bag and immediately spun around to face the house.
The two figures were gone.
Confused, I rushed to the edge of the boat closest to the shore, grabbing onto the railing to hold myself up as I leaned out as far as I could, squinting at the house. Yes, they were most definitely gone.
The sound of water splashing startled me, and I turned to see Kyle pulling himself up over the dive platform at the back of the boat. He pulled off his fins and mask, shaking his head wildly back and forth to spray salt water in my direction. He smiled up at me, but his smile faded immediately when his gaze found mine.
"Are you ok? What did I miss?" he asked, standing to grab my face between his hands, obviously worried about my horrified expression.
"That woman... she... he was.... something is wrong," I said, frustrated at my own stumbling effort to explain the situation.
"Whoa whoa. Calm down. Something happened to the crazy old bitch?" He asked, gesturing in the general direction of the house, not taking his eyes off of mine.
"Yes," I said, taking a steadying breath, "she was still waving us away when someone else came outside. They got into a scuffle and he hit her. She went down... hard. Then I tried to get back here to be able to see and maybe call for help, but now they're both gone," I said quickly.
We stared at each other for maybe another three seconds before I continued, "I'm going to call for help on the radio." I walked past him for the captain's chair and reached up next to the GPS system to dislodge the radio from the dash.
"Wh... what do you mean?" Kyle rushed up behind me to snatch the radio out of my hand. "They're not gone. Look, there's someone up there right now," he said, pointing up to the railing of the beach house. I slowly turned to face the house, praying it was the woman, hoping she was alright.
There, in the middle of the porch and facing towards us, was the other figure, the one was sure I had seen attack the woman. The figure stood perfectly still, perfectly straight. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as we stared up toward the unnaturally motionless figure. How long had they been standing there? I hadn't seen them just a moment ago when I was straining over the edge of the boat....
Suddenly, we heard a mournful call come across the water from the direction of the beach house.
"I'm sorrrrrryyyyy....... I'm SOOOORRRRYYYYYYY," it grew louder as it repeated over and over again.
The figure remained motionless, making it impossible to tell if the cry came from them, or somewhere else. The just stood and.... stared in our direction.
I frantically looked to Kyle for answers, but he just continued to stare at the figure.
Who was sorry? What were they apologizing to us for? I was sure we hadn't been seen in the water when the scuffle took place.... or had we? The call droned on and on, each new "sorry" making the situation more and more eerie.
"What are you sorry for?!" Kyle yelled, cupping his hands suddenly around his mouth to answer the call, which was still sounding out, as if it were being played on repeat.
Almost immediately, the call was cut short. The repetitive groaning apology stopped mid-sentence. Simultaneously, the figure turned quickly on their heel and walked into the darkened doorway of the house, leaving us alone with nothing but the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore for an answer.
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