If humans just disappeared from the world, and you could come back to Earth … one year later, the first thing you’d notice wouldn’t be with your eyes. It would be with your ears. The world would be quiet. —Carlton Basmajian,Ph.D., Iowa State University
The Unrealized Resort
The Ginn Sur Mer development on the southwestern coast of Grand Bahama Island is not a ghost town. Despite its roads, stop signs, electrical lines and dredged waterways, it was never a town at all. No one ever lived here and only one house was ever built. The developers envisioned golf courses, luxury homes, hotels, restaurants and room for mega yachts.
An aerial view of Ginn Sur Mer from the Waterway Guide®.
After the Ginn company defaulted on a $650 million loan, Credit-Suisse foreclosed on the property in 2010. Although the government was eager to find new investors, work stopped on the luxury property. The original developers left wide canals with stone sea walls and a 14-foot deep anchorage with room for 9 or 10 boats.
An ad for Ginn Sur Mer, showing the high hopes of the developers.
When we arrived there were three other boats in the anchorage but by the time evening came around, there were nine boats in the basin and one catamaran in the canal to the east. A stiff wind was predicted for the following night so anyone in the area looking for a safe refuge didn’t have many choices. It is really the only protected anchorage in this end of Grand Bahama Island, which is a very long island.
Catmandu anchored at Ginn Sur Mer.
We were anxious to explore all the little canals, and after a brief friendly visit from one of our Canadian neighbors, we climbed into our dinghy to take a look around. “Deserted” doesn’t begin to describe the eeriness of this area. The sandy roads have stop signs at intersections, and a completed bridge crosses over the canal. The vegetation consists of low shrubs and trees that crowd in on the few cleared lots.
Leaving Catmandu for some dinghy exploration. Looks like the wind has started to blow.
A bridge over the canal had been completed, and was ready for vehicles.
We wandered around in the canals using our quiet Electric Paddle® electric motor, coming to a couple of small lakes where the canals ended (see the chart above). Because the waterways are lined with stone seawalls, there was no way to beach the dinghy and explore on land. The wildlife was silent; we didn’t even hear birds singing. We saw one turtle on the way into the basin, but no fish, turtles, dolphins or land animals after that.
The only completed house sits empty and quiet on the beachfront. Here it is from the canal.
We wanted to see the one house that was built, and found it on the canal closest to the beach. It stands on the beachfront, about three stories high, with a large garage and a finished roof. It looks ready for occupation, but no one lives there. Of course there are no nearby services except for the few amenities offered by the settlement of West End, four miles away over half-finished roadways. Our Canadian neighbors told us they had entered the house and looked around, but we were not about to trespass, no matter who owns the property.
Phil, exploring Ginn Sur Mer by dinghy.
The Big Blow
Phil keeps a close eye on wind predictions, so we knew a big wind was about to blow. The harbor was crowded because of the wind forecast, and the crowded anchorage made high wind much more dangerous. For inexperienced boaters who don’t exactly know how much chain to put out with the anchor, there is a danger of dragging and hitting other boats. But even for seasoned sailors, high winds can dislodge a well-placed anchor, and most cruisers have dragged their anchors at one time or another.
Phil studying forecasts from Predict Wind™ and other sources, before the winds started howling.
We were nervous about the 25-knot wind predictions. It doesn’t sound like a lot until it is howling above you and rattling your boat’s rigging. This wind began to whirr at sunset, and by ten o’clock, we were seeing 20-knots on the wind instrument. The wind howled above us. The shallow anchorage was whipped up to a froth and the waves rocked the boat. The sustained winds reached 25 knots with 27-knot gusts.
I tried to sleep, but Phil stayed outside and monitored the anchor watch. It was pitch dark, except for ten anchor lights and the cockpit lights of a few other boats with skippers staying at their helms, also on anchor watch. The concrete seawall on one side and coral ledge on the other side of the narrow channel were invisible except on the chart plotter.
At 11 pm, Phil saw on the chart plotter that our anchor had been briefly dislodged and had dragged about 25 feet before catching again. For the anxiety that caused, he stayed at the helm all night, finally coming to bed at 4:30 am. I offered to finish out the night, but he said the wind would die down soon. It was 7:30 am before we heard the wind settle down, just as the sun rose.
We stayed at Ginn Sur Mer for one more night and on Saturday morning we tried to raise the anchor. Phil pulled up as much chain as he could with the anchor windlass, but it wouldn’t budge from the bottom. He directed me to motor forward slowly, first to the right and then left, as he moved the chain in different directions. The anchor was wedged down tightly, and due to the high winds, it had been pulled with a lot of force, possibly under rocks.
After 20 minutes of maneuvering back and forth, Phil told me to motor forward and finally got the anchor off the bottom. If we hadn’t been able to free it, the alternatives were limited: let the anchor go with 150 feet of attached chain, or dive into murky water to attach another line to help pull it up. Luckily, we didn’t have to make that decision.
The Ginn Sur Mer anchorage, peaceful at sunset.
We love the peace of a deserted anchorage, being off the grid with no motors running. It is so often ruined by inconsiderate people in their loud boats and even louder music. And nature itself sometimes gets loud: howling winds, waves crashing, laughing gulls, ospreys, and (sometimes) ocelots. But after the boats leave and the winds die down, there’s just the musical lapping of ripples against the hull. Phil calls it happy boat sounds. My word for it is quiet.
“Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you.” —Princess Diana
“Try to be a rainbow in someone’s cloud.” —Maya Angelou
Bimini to Grand Bahama Island
The sun hadn’t quite popped over the horizon when we left Brown’s Marina on March 14, but it was light enough to see. We fought a 2-knot current as we made our way out of the harbor and swung wide to avoid marked sandbars. The sun came up as we turned north and headed straight for the side of a Carnival Cruise ship. It was very slowly backing into position on the Bimini Cruise ship pier, in no hurry to get out of our way.
The Carnival Paradise was backing into the Bimini Cruise Ship Pier very slowly.
We passed the Carnival Paradise on her bow and put out the headsail to take advantage of a light SE wind coming across our starboard beam. The sail gave us a little boost and we motored north at 6 to 6.5 knots, rolling rhythmically in a 1- to 2-foot swell. By 10am, we were shedding our sweatshirts as the day warmed up.
Around mid-day, Phil noticed that we were once again out of the sight of land. “Who will see land first?” he asked, but I knew he would. He pointed out a lighthouse to our right that I could barely make out in the hazy distance. “Great Isaac Cay,” he said. “We’re at the same latitude as Fort Lauderdale now.”
We talked about the lack of dolphins (or whales) and the plenitude of flying fish, little silvery missiles that torpedo through the air just above the surface for a few yards before re-entering the water with barely a splash. “Wonder what’s chasing them,” I said.
“Dolphins,” he said.
“And whales?” I tried to imagine giant beasts just below the surface, mouths open to receive a silvery meal.
Land appeared ahead of us and to our right, showing up as a light border on the edge of a darker mass. That was sand; pristine deserted beaches lead into the ocean on every side of Grand Bahama Island except around the industrial city of Freeport.
We entered the inlet at West End Point and docked in those slips you see to the left of the word “Beach.”
We headed to West End, the aptly named town on the western point of the island. The marina, Old Bahama Bay, had a narrow winding approach between stone jetties that boats had to enter single file. A greedy catamaran suddenly came up on our right and raced to squeeze in front of us at the entrance. Phil slowed and let them pass while I called them names under my breath. (He’s nicer than I am.)
Old Bahama Bay Marina
As Phil motored into the small harbor, docks appeared on the left with a long fuel dock hugging the jetty along the right side. I readied the bow lines and got a mid-ship line just in case. Phil was forced to make a starboard loop to manage the tight turn into our allotted slip. The slip was the first one on the left, around a narrow dock. He took a right turn to get the boat angled into the parking space, when a sudden gust came at us from the west, pushing the boat into the long empty fuel dock.
Here is the fuel dock across from the slip we were assigned. Wind pressed us up against this dock as we tried to pull in to our slip. Note that none of the docks have cleats.
We both rushed to the port side, pushing off the dock as hard as we could, but couldn’t fight the wind. We stayed pinned there while Phil tried to steer the bow off to the right and I pushed the pilings away. I felt panicked; I think Phil did, too. I heard him swear as a gust blew us back to the dock and disconnected one of the bimini supports.
The woman who runs the fuel dock saw our dilemma and ran out to help us. She reached out for the bow pulpit and pushed us off. Then she ran to the middle of the boat and used a leg to push off one of our stanchions. Phil tried backing up with a sharp turn of the wheel and finally got the bow to swerve right. He pushed forward harder and I put my feet off the side of the bow to push off of the dock. We finally eased into the middle of the channel and I yelled a quick thanks to the woman on the dock.
The wind slowed as quickly as it had started, and Phil was able to steer Catmandu into her parking spot. A couple of cruisers from the next slip rushed over to help with the lines. The woman tying our spring line suddenly looked up.
“Is that Phil?” she said. “Oh my gosh.”
“Astrid?” Phil said.
“It’s the former Gulfstream commodores club!” she said. Ross and Astrid had both served as commodores, and so had Phil.
They had just arrived on their sailboat Commotion after a long crossing, and coincidentally (as it so often happens) had docked into the slip next to ours. They helped with lines, chatted with us about the crossing, and suggested what to order at the local restaurant. (Ah, the Grouper Grilled Cheese sandwich – so gooey and delicious with “magic” sauce – I took their advice.)
Catmandu safely tied up at Old Bahama Bay Marina.
A local bread woman came by, offering $7 loaves of wheat, cinnamon raisin, coconut, and banana breads. I hesitated while Ross bought a couple of loaves and then she was gone, down the dock pulling her wagon of bread behind her. I regretted not picking up a loaf of raisin bread, and when we saw her later outside the restaurant, she was sold out of all but banana bread.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Phil said, but we didn’t see her again until the night before we left, when she only had $12 white bread, not something we needed. Phil makes delicious French bread from scratch every week. I confess I thought about homemade cinnamon raisin bread for days.
When we brought our coffees into the cockpit early the next morning, Astrid and Ross were gone. Neither of us woke as they backed out of the dock right next to us. The next night, a new catamaran pulled into the slip on the other side of us. They had crossed from West Palm Beach expecting to arrive in daylight. The wind and sea state had slowed them down and they ended up banging into the wind and waves and arriving long after dark. They were from New Hampshire, on their way to a family gathering on Treasure Cay, just stopping long enough to wait for a weather window, do laundry, and recover.
There is a lovely pool area, open to marina guests, and a pool bar to the right.
The Old Bahama Bay Marina was practically empty for the few days we were there, with lots of open slips. The marina consists of a fuel dock, a restaurant, a hotel or two, a small store which is only open at the whim of the proprietor, and a drink shack called Banana Hammock. The adjoining resort property has a sandy beach and a lush pool area with a pool bar that serves food. All of the servers there wore shirts with “Dis” before their names: Dis Becky, and Dis Francine as in, This is Becky.
Here’s our selfie at the pool bar with Dis Becky.
We have found that stores and restaurants tend to be closed on Sunday, so we were surprised and delighted to find the Banana Hammock open on Sunday afternoon. There were two well-dressed middle aged Bahamian women sitting there (fresh from church, I thought) and the music was pure American country. We sat and drank “Sonds” beers – the local beer is Sands, but natives call it sonds.
We enjoyed cold beers at Banana Hammock in the company of two Bahamian women dressed for church.
I listened to the lilting dialect of the women beside me, realizing I didn’t understand every word but loving the sound of it. There was no food there; it’s just a drink shack. Back at the boat, we had gin and tonics in the cockpit and a dinner of veggie brats on the grill.
Captain’s hour on Catmandu with crackers, cheese, veggies and dip.
Snorkeling with Rays
We visited the beach the next day with our snorkeling gear and swam above the grassy sand watching little fish dart around beneath us, weaving in and out of the swaying grasses. Phil swam ahead with the Go-Pro into deeper water. Suddenly, a large dark shadow caught my attention down below my feet and my heart sped up. A black, shiny ray about three feet across swam just under my stomach and I felt a moment of panic. I squealed and stood up, watching the tail of the ray move across my path.
“What!” Phil yelled, coming to my side. I laughed because you would have thought I was in mortal danger and it wasn’t even big for a ray. But it was exciting, and I told Phil where it went so he could follow with the Go-Pro. As he left, I stuck my face back in the water and saw a cloud of little 3-inch fish in the hundreds swimming all around me. I can’t identify fish, but these were silvery and fish-shaped with gray stripes (possibly striped seabream?).
The next day, we tried to get a ride to the convenience store in West End. We hoped to hop on the free bicycles, but the seats were all too high for me and despite efforts by two hotel workers, the rusted seats would not budge.
Finally, one of the men offered to take us to the store in his own car. There is one taxi, but he was not answering the call. Phil gave the driver money and we took the short ride along sandy roads, past small houses with broken gates, brief views of the ocean beyond the scrubby bushes, and finally turned into the small lot in front of the Express Food Market. All along the route, the driver honked and waved at every human we passed. “Do you know everyone here?” Phil asked.
“Of course. Lived here my whole life. I went to school with all these guys,” he said. He offered to wait while we shopped. The small store was packed full of merchandise, with a small amount of produce (potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini), some dairy items but no eggs, and shelves of rice, noodles, pasta, boxed crackers, canned goods and even spices. There were no meat substitutes in the freezer case, but that didn’t surprise us. We spent $28 and got what we needed.
On our last day at the marina, I decided to do laundry in the marina laundromat. Only two out of the eight machines were working and three very cooperative women were juggling loads. I could not believe the kindness and helpfulness of these women. One was a local patron, and one was our dock neighbor. We coordinated our washer loads, rushed the dryers, transferred loads for each other, and chatted outside during wait times. It was the most fun I’ve ever had doing laundry. At the end, Phil hiked over and brought me a cold “sonds” from Banana Hammock. (He also told me what a “banana hammock” is.)
Old Bahama Bay Resort and Marina is a full service resort, with hotel rooms as well as slips. This is the shared pool, looking north toward the ocean.
The Old Bahama Bay Marina is a bit expensive. They charge 2.50/ft per night plus .70/ft for electricity and a mandatory $20/day for water. For the sake of our screaming credit cards, we planned to leave this marina as soon as the strong winds subsided. The winds blew over 20 kts. for four days. Finally, after five nights here, we were ready to tuck in to a protected anchorage just four miles away.
I was ready to be alone with Phil at anchor. Marina life is social, with neighbors in close proximity. I like a little respite from the rest of humanity once in a while. But everyone here — at this marina and in the community — was kind, friendly, and helpful. From the woman on the fuel dock to the man who drove us to the food market, to the servers in the pool bar, to the women at the laundry, we were treated to the kindness of strangers. That’s what I will remember about Old Bahama Bay.
